


Whumptober 2019 (Supernatural)

by ThousandFreckles



Series: Whumptober 2019 [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abuse, Aftermath of Torture, Angel Wings, Angelus ex machina, Angst, BAMF Castiel (Supernatural), BAMF Mary Winchester, BAMF Winchesters (Supernatural), Biting off more than I can chew, Branding, Burns, Caring Dean Winchester, Castiel is a Winchester, Castiel/Kelly (sort of), Claustrophobia, Claustrophobic Dean Winchester, College au (sort of), Comatose Dean Winchester, Crying, Demon Blood, Drowning, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Emotionally Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Epilepsy, Epileptic Castiel, Exhaustion, Fallout AU, Family Feels, Fire, Gas-N-Sip (Supernatural), Gaslighting, Gen, Gun Violence, Gunshot Wounds, Hallucinations, Handcuffs, Hellhounds, Human Castiel (Supernatural), Humor, Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Claire Novak, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Jack Kline, Hurt Jody Mills, Hurt Sam Winchester, Hurt/Comfort, I'm sorry I made you cry, If it helps I cried too, It's gen I swear, Kidnapping, Naomi is not a nice person, No Kevin apparently, No Season 15 Spoilers, Parental Jody Mills, Platonic Cuddling, Platonic Relationships, Poison, Rare GEN Sandover fic, Sandover AU, Sandover Bridge & Iron Inc. (Supernatural), Scars, Season 9 AU, Seizures, Sensory Deprivation, Sick Sam Winchester, Team Free Will (Supernatural), Team Free Will 2.0, Violence, Wendigo, Whump, Whumptober 2019, Witches, Worried Sam Winchester, amateur surgery, angelic true forms headcanon, but it's not what you think, character death in final chapter, demon blood headcanon, djinn, friggin witches again man, friggin witches man, juliet - Freeform, major Cas whump, more angelic headcanon, more major Cas whump, more torture, never let them monologue, oh look more angst, overuse of the word sarcophagus, real men love cowboys, season 12 au, series ending au, seriously somebody smite that Naomi bitch, water monsters, wikipedia - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-02
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2020-11-10 15:28:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 31
Words: 43,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20854043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThousandFreckles/pseuds/ThousandFreckles
Summary: Whumptober 2019, need we say anything more? Lots of whump ahead, for more than just Team Free Will 2.0. Though Cas gets the lion's share, we will see everyone whumped.Final day: Embrace (Winchester) - Family don't end in blood. In the end, that's all that matters.Character death is in final chapter, but it's an idealization of the end of the series. It's the ending I would write, if I were allowed to write it.





	1. Shaky Hands (Sanctuary)

**Author's Note:**

> I'll apologize for errors in advance. Not to drag my personal life into everything, but my husband left me three months ago (with no warning) and as I write this my oldest cat is in the hospital recovering from a liver infection (he's doing well, considering he's thirteen, and should be coming home tomorrow).
> 
> I'm gonna try to have every chapter up between 7 and 8 in the evening
> 
> This chapter is set during season 6 after Frontierland (episode 18) but before the boys find out Castiel has been working with Crowley.

“Sammy!”

Sam dove for the meager cover the overturned armchair offered as a third angel flickered into being. He cursed and fumbled for the angel blade he'd dropped earlier as he heard Dean grunt at the impact of steel on steel.

It was supposed to be a routine salt-and-burn. Mysterious accidents and deaths within hours of a local history club unearthing some civil war artifacts, couldn't get much easier than that. But thanks to Winchester luck, it turned out to be a trap laid by Raphael's minions.

“Stop this, Esther! Anapiel!”

Sam vaulted over the table to assist Dean, throwing a quick glance at Castiel to see how the angel was faring against two of his brothers.

“Why do you struggle, Brother?” one angel, wearing what looked like a bodybuilder, locked his blade against Cas's and forced him back until he was nearly bent backward over a rickety table. “All you need do is bow to Raphael and all will be forgiven.”

“I don't need his forgiveness,” Cas hissed, one arm bracing the other as Esther slowly forced the locked blades closer to his throat.

The other angel, Anapiel, was lunging across the table to get a handful of Cas's hair. Sam shouted a wordless warning and threw his angel blade, end over end, so it embedded in Anapiel's chest. A burst of light, nearly enough to sear his retinas even with his eyes closed, and Anapiel was nothing but a corpse on the floor and a burnt shadow on the wall.

But it was Cas's scream that drew Sam's attention. During the distraction of Anapiel's death Esther had managed to wrest control of both angel blades from Cas and struck. Glowing slashes lanced up the side of his face and across his chest, but Sam had turned back just in time to see Esther thrust both blades to the hilts in Cas's thighs.

Dean swore behind him and there was another flash of light, but Sam ignored all of that and focused his attack on the angel still standing over Castiel. Esther turned with a sneer and flicked one hand, both brothers thrown to the opposite wall at the gesture.

“And the vessels,” Esther stalked toward them, his own vessel rippling with power. “Lord Raphael will be-”

Esther never finished his sentence as, with a burst of light and a cry of rage, he vanished into the ether. Across the room Cas slumped back onto the table, banishing sigil smoldering on the wall beside him.

\- - -

Dean kicked the door to the motel room open, staggering in with one of Cas's arms thrown over his shoulders as Sam supported the angel's other side. They laid the angel back on one of the beds but he immediately struggled to get up, despite his injuries weakening him enough that Dean could pin him down at the shoulders.

“Come on, Cas, you're gonna make it worse,” Dean practically growled. They'd managed to wrap some hasty bandages around the wounds in Cas's legs, enough to get the blades out and get him moving again, but none of his other injuries had been tended to yet.

Angels healed from most things, but wounds from an angel blade were always tricky.

“No time,” Cas whimpered, trying to roll Dean away. “They'll be coming.”

“Yeah, well, we'll deal with that then,” Dean shook his head. “Where's the first aid kit?” he called out to his brother.

Cas shook his head, blood matting in his hair and smearing on the pillow. “No!” he growled and somehow got enough leverage to shrug Dean away, and as the hunter half-climbed after the angel Cas began smearing blood on the wall.

“What the...” Dean just rested one hand on Cas's shoulder. “Cas, what is this?”

“Sanctuary,” the angel panted, in a mirror to another conversation with another hunter. He'd been wounded that time, too, landing in Bobby's kitchen just to pass out on the older man.

“I think Bobby showed me this,” Sam knelt next to Castiel. “Is it the same sigil?”

Cas shook his head. “Not enough,” he hissed, voice tight with pain.

He dragged his fingers through the wound in his chest and kept working, but stopped as his hands shook from pain or blood loss and the smooth line of the circle jerked across the wall. Cas gave a faint sound that was almost a grunt, almost a whimper, and painfully shuffled further along the bed to start over.

“Come on, man, you're too hurt for this,” Dean tried to pull him away, but Cas stubbornly grabbed at the edge of the bed and started painting a new circle, shaking hands smudging the lines even worse than the first one. With another pained sound he changed position again and started on a third one, but Sam captured his hands and pulled them away.

“Hey, Cas, here,” Sam held up the motel notepad and pen. “Can you draw it? I can put the warding up, I've been studying the sigil you put up at Bobby's.”

Cas studied Sam for a moment, but nodded in agreement and took the offered items. The pen rattled in Cas's hands, but he let Dean roll him back onto the bed so he could prop the notepad against his knee. “It h-has to be precise,” he stammered, frowning at the wavy lines on the paper. "There's a g-glyph here to redirect focus."

Sam gently took it back and studied it. “I think I can see it,” he said after a few seconds. “I'll try it and you can correct me, okay?”

Dean let out a sigh of relief as Cas nodded again. “Okay, can we take care of you now?” he said, easing the angel back against the bed.

“S-sorry.”

“Dammit, Cas,” Dean shook his head, catching the shaking hands between his own and frowning at how cold the angel's skin was. “Just let us help you, all right?”

The angel jerked his head in a nod and closed his eyes as Dean pulled his shirt away to care for his wounds. "Yes...th-thank you."


	2. Explosion (Mom-Arm)

“Dammit, I hate this,” Dean growled, trying to shove the seat another inch back. Sam, who felt like his knees were tucked up around his neck, just rolled his eyes and stared out the window rather than snap a reply. So far the wendigo hunting this particular stretch of back road seemed to only attack sub-compact cars, which was why they were packed into a dingy little '99 Festiva instead of something with the leg room to accommodate a 6'4” hunter.

He wasn't used to being this...close...to his brother for an extended period of time. They'd been driving up and down the road for half the night and Sam's shoulders were cramping from trying to hunch over on his side of the car so he and Dean weren't squished together.

“It's almost three,” Sam commented, checking his phone. “This thing's never appeared later than two-thirty.”

Dean clenched his jaw. “One more run,” he glanced over at Sam and let out a sigh. “Nothing happens by the time we hit the bridge we call it a night.” Like Sam he hated the thought of leaving something like a wendigo out there, but this road was only part of its hunting circuit and time wasted here could mean the thing was taking another victim somewhere else.

Sam turned back to stare out the window when several things seemed to happen at once.

The Festiva's headlights illuminated a dark figure standing in the middle of the road.

Dean cursed and slammed on the brakes.

The wendigo reared up with a roar and slammed both fists into the hood of the little car.

Something struck Sam across the chest as the airbags exploded out, filling the car with the smell of burning powder.

Sam had blacked out for a moment, but came to as the passenger-side door was torn away with a metallic screech. A clawed hand wrapped around his upper arm and started to pull him out, more claws slashing through the seatbelt to free him.

There was still a slight tug of resistance, and Sam looked down, head still a little muzzy, to see Dean's arm across his chest with one hand twisted in Sam's shirt. The wendigo snarled and tore Dean's hand free, bringing the other Winchester to consciousness with a howl of pain.

The wendigo hauled Sam around away from the car and backhanded him across the face, sending the hunter crashing to the ground. Sam tugged the flare gun free from the back of his belt and aimed at the wendigo, only for the monster to grab him by the arm and wrench up so that the gun fired harmlessly into the air.

Though it was futile, Sam had a knife in his other hand and lashed out at the Wendigo, though it was like cutting through heavy leather and left almost no wound behind. The wendigo shrieked at him and grabbed him around the throat, hoisting him up to eye level to snarl into his face.

Horrible crooked teeth, milky white eyes, and the reek of death from its mouth all met Sam as he was brought closer to the wendigo's face.

“Hey!”

The wendigo snapped its head around at Dean's yell, and Sam could barely see his brother past the monster's head. Dean was stretched over the roof of the wrecked Festiva, hand supported by the little car's roof as he aimed his own flare gun (left hand, Sam noticed. The wendigo must have injured Dean's right hand).

With a roar the wendigo dropped Sam and turned toward Dean just as the older Winchester fired, the flare briefly illuminating the skeletal frame as the wendigo screeched and burned.

Sam rolled away, slapping at the sparks that had landed on his jacket. He was a little sore from the crash, with a few cuts from the monster's claws, but nothing serious. Until his hand brushed across his chest and he hissed in pain.

“Sammy?” Dean gingerly knelt beside him, cradling his injured wrist. “You okay?”

Sam pulled his shirt up and squinted at the faint line of bruising across his chest. Dean leaned closer and let out a whistle. “Did you hit the frame on your way out?”

“No, that's from you, Dean.”

“What?” Dean shook his head, rocking back on his heels. “Come on, man, when would I have done that?”

“Dude, you mom-armed me.”

Dean stared at him for a moment then struggled to his feet and started back toward the car. “You hit your head, too?”

“I know a mom-arm when I feel it,” Sam retorted, slowly standing up and stretching out a twinge of pain in his hip. “You haven't done that since I was fourteen.”

“We are not having this discussion,” Dean replied as he awkwardly shuffled through the debris in the car. “You have your phone?”

Sam checked his pockets and finally produced a twisted piece of plastic with a shattered screen. “Aw, man, I liked this one.”

“I'll buy you another if you never call it a 'mom-arm' again—ah-ha!” Dean held his phone up in triumph, cable still dangling from where it had been plugged in to the cigarette lighter. He swiped the screen on and hit one of the auto-dial numbers, cradling the phone between his head and shoulder as he turned to lean back against the wreckage of the car. “Hey, Cas...yeah, turned up on state route A-26. Listen, uh, think you can come pick us up?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most importantly, my kitty is doing better and back home! He has to take medicine and be on a restricted diet, so he isn't completely out of the woods but he's so much better.
> 
> Secondly, the wendigo is absolutely based off of the ones from Until Dawn. This one could probably see movement, but I like the visuals that game has.
> 
> Thirdly, my dad drove a Festiva when I was in high school, and they can be really, really tiny.
> 
> Next time: Delirium (Brother)


	3. Delirium (Brother)

Mary settled down on the edge of Sam's bed and wiped down his forehead and cheeks with a fresh cloth. It had started as a cold, but had quickly changed into something that left the youngest Winchester fevered and restless and plagued with nightmares.

“Dean?”

Mary leaned over Sam to press a cold cloth to the back of his neck. “It's me, Sam. It's Mom.”

“D-dean?” Sam twisted away from her, eyes half-open and unseeing. “Dean, I'm sorry!”

She tried to hush him, catching a flailing wrist and pressing it to Sam's chest but he only struggled harder. “Dean's sleeping,” she whispered, glancing over her shoulder at the open door. “It's okay, honey, everything's okay.”

“No!” Sam bucked her off and rolled off the bed, pulling the blankets off after him. “Dean! I didn't mean it!”

Mary hurried around to his side to unwind the tangled sheets. “Sam, it's okay. Dean's not mad at you.”

“Let me go,” Sam shoved at her hands, one erratic motion clipping her on the shoulder hard enough to knock her back.

That was enough. “Dean!” Mary called over her shoulder, startled to see her older son already standing in the doorway, sleep-tousled and barefoot.

“Aw, Sammy,” Dean gingerly stepped around her and knelt by his brother, cupping his hands around the younger Winchester's face. “Hey, kiddo, I'm here.”

“Dean,” Sam nearly sobbed. “I didn't mean to.”

“Yeah, I know you didn't,” Dean gently rested the back of one hand on Sam's forehead and frowned at the temperature. “Jeez, you gotta overdo everything, huh?”

“I c-couldn't stop it.”

“Hey, it got to Cas, too, remember?” Dean hooked his arms under his brother's and heaved him up on the bed. “Remember the hamburgers?”

“I'm sorry.”

“Forget it, just get better, okay?” Dean glanced back at Mary, still standing awkwardly at the foot of the bed. “Mom? Can you go run cold water in the shower and get him something clean to wear?”

He waited until Mary was out of the room to slide a hand behind Sam's neck and press their foreheads together. “You beat the demon blood, kiddo,” Dean whispered. “Remember? It sucked but you beat it and it's been almost a decade.”

Sam gave a dry sob and fisted one hand in Dean's shirt. Dean guided his brother's head to rest on his shoulder and let the kid cry it out for a minute. It always hurt him when Sam was hurt or sick...always pulled on that _take care of Sammy_ part of his soul.

Sam was mumbling something now, and Dean listened for a few moments before he recognized fragments of the spell to close the gates of hell and his heart broke just a little more. “No, not that either,” he murmured, carding his fingers through his brother's sweat-soaked hair. “I promise you, Sammy, it's just a little virus. Not demon blood, not the trials, it's just something you'll fight off.”

“Um...Dean?” Mary was standing in the doorway, arms clutching a bath towel to her stomach. “The shower's ready.”

“Up we go, Sammy,” Dean hooked his arms under his brother's again and hauled him to his feet. “Damn, you get taller every time,” he groused as he tucked himself against Sam's body to support him for the short walk to the showers.

He could see his mom had thoughtfully placed a chair in the shower, but that wasn't at all necessary. Dean just walked himself and his brother right under the spray, pajamas at all, and held on as Sam shuddered against the sudden cold. "Sorry, kiddo, gotta let this work for a minute."

“D-dean?” Sam yelped, eyes focused for the first time.

“There he is,” Dean grinned.

“That's cold!”

“Yeah, well, you spiked pretty high,” Dean rested his hand against his brother's forehead, frowning in concentration. “Still not great.”

Sam shivered and tried to push himself away from Dean. “They make thermometers, Dean.”

“You thought you were coming off demon blood.”

Sam froze, a tremor that had nothing to do with the cold rushing through his body. “I'm sorry.”

“None of that,” Dean replied firmly, easing Sam down into the chair that proved necessary after all and turning off the shower. “Let's get you into some dry clothes and you can curl up and watch Downtown Abbey or whatever while Mom makes tomato-rice soup.”

“It's Downton Abbey.”

“It's boring.”

Sam caught Dean's sleeve as he turned to grab a dry towel. “Hey, Dean? Thanks...I just...well, thanks.”

Dean smiled back and ruffled his hand through his brother's hair, leaving it sticking up in odd spikes. “Any time, kiddo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Human Shield (Not for Me)


	4. Human Shield (Not for Me)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is an alternate to the Season 12 finale. Lucifer decides to have a little fun with the boys before he kills Castiel. 
> 
> Honestly, my entire day went straight to hell, I'm surprised I actually got this written and I even like it.

Castiel shrugged between Dean and Sam and strode toward Lucifer. He heard Dean calling his name behind him, heard Sam ushering Dean to the rip between worlds, but could only focus on his goal.

Stop the devil. Weaken Lucifer to trap him in this world, where he could not touch the Winchesters or Kelly's child.

Lucifer met his eyes with a toothy smile, bending his knees and spreading his hands. “Your turn now, kiddo?”

Not for nothing had Castiel been the fastest in his garrison. In one swift move he stepped inside the devil's lax guard and planted his angel blade in his enemy's stomach.

At least, that was the plan. If only Lucifer hadn't anticipated his moves.

Lucifer pinned Castiel's arm between his own arm and side and delivered a quick blow to the side of the angel's head. “Yeah, all those battle tactics you spent so many millennia learning? Who do you think Michael used to practice on?”

Castiel managed to whirl away and flipped his blade to an overhanded grip before launching another attack at Lucifer. He aimed rapid slashes at the devil's face to drive him back a few steps, put Lucifer on the defensive.

But Lucifer just laughed, stepped to the side of one of Castiel's strike and caught his wrist. He slammed his other palm up against Castiel's elbow and the joint gave with an audible crack, angel blade falling from his grip to be taken up by the devil.

“See, you need to vary your slashes a little. Keep going for the face and you become predictable,” Lucifer chided, slashing Castiel's face and upraised arms a few times before carving a gash in his ribcage. “Guess Michael never taught you guys to play dirty.”

Castiel wrapped his good arm around his ribs, trying to tuck the injured one closer to his body. The rip would only be open a few more seconds, and he really didn't favor his chances if he were trapped on this side with the devil. “You'll never win this.”

“That's where you''re wrong,” Lucifer stalked closer and grabbed Castiel by the lapels, slamming the hilt of the angel blade into his face over and over. “I've already won, little brother. Just you and those two idiots in my way.”

Castiel was being propelled backwards toward the tear, fighting to gain some kind of hold on Lucifer. The devil cackled and drove the angel blade into Castiel's injured arm just above the elbow and twisted. “Tell them I'm coming,” he sneered, planting a foot on the angel's stomach and pushing him through the rip between worlds as he tore the angel blade free.

He hit the sand on the other side with a painful jolt, unable to even keep his feet as the dimensional tear spat him out.

“Cas!”

Bloodied and beaten, Castiel could barely roll onto his side to cough out a mouthful of blood as Dean rushed to support him. “God, Cas, what happened.”

“Oh, that was me,” Lucifer announced, holding up Castiel's angel blade and waving. “Miss me?”

“You son of a bitch!” Dean leaped to his feet and rushed the devil, only to be flung to one side by the fallen archangel's power.

“Come on, guys,” Lucifer shook his head condescendingly. “Shouldn't you know better by now?”

Sam, his own angel blade in hand, didn't even have time to move before Lucifer crooked one finger and a wave of power forced him to his knees.

“Now, I don't have a lot of time because I think my son is about to join us,” Lucifer began. “So I think I'll just start with little Cassie here and be back for you mortals once Junior and I are acquainted.”

He turned the injured angel over onto his back and posed for a moment, hefting the blade in his hand. “Yeah, I think you can have this back now,” Lucifer said and drove the knife down toward Castiel's heart.

“No!” Dean, who had been edging forward just out of sight of Lucifer, dove forward to shield Cas with his own body. The blade pierced his back and drove through one lung, deflecting it enough to miss Cas's heart.

“Dean!” Cas grabbed at the back of his friend's shirt, trying to get some sense of the damage. “Dean, what have you done?”

Lucifer gave a snarl and tore the angel blade loose, rolled Dean away and grabbed Castiel by the front of the shirt to yank him up to eye level. “Winchesters had to get between us one more time?”

Through the roar of pain and grief and fear for his friend in his mind, Castiel was vaguely aware that Mary had joined them, though Sam was trying to hold her back.

That was it, then. The nephilim was born and Kelly was dead and Lucifer would have everything he wanted.

“Get away from my boys!”

Mary's fist, strengthened by Enochian brass knuckles, caught Lucifer on the side of the face. The devil dropped Castiel and staggered back a step, lifting one hand to wipe at a trail of blood.

“Oh, that's cute,” he snarked. “That all you got, Mama?”

As old and powerful as the devil was, he should have known not to taunt a Winchester.

Castiel barely heard the exchange of blows as he dragged himself over to Dean, laying one hand over the stab wound in his friend's chest.

“No, Dean,” he coughed, head dropping to rest on the hunter's shoulders. “You shouldn't have done that.”

“'ey,” Dean grabbed blindly at Cas's hand, his wound gurgling alarmingly as he drew in a shaky breath. “S'what family does.”

Tears filled Castiel's eyes. “Not for me, Dean. Never, never for me, my friend.”

“Dean? Cas?” Sam knelt beside them, his hand covering theirs on Dean's chest. “Can't you heal him?”

“I'm trying,” Cas blinked up at Sam. Lucifer's attacks had struck his true form, leaving him disconnected to his grace. He could feel the slightest tendrils of it knitting flesh together beneath his hand but it was slow. “Mary?”

“She's, uh, she's gone,” Sam looked away, blinking away tears. “She and Lucifer fell through the rip.”

Dean gave a pained sound and Cas refocused his efforts. He felt his friend's lung reinflate beneath his hands and his own shoulders sagged in relief. “Please, do not be so rash in the future,” he begged. “The world will survive without me.”

“Hey,” Dean squeezed Cas's hand, and he thought maybe Sam had, too. “The world needs _us_.”

Behind them, the windows of the cottage flared yellow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good thoughts for my kitty, please. He might be having a relapse.
> 
> Tomorrow: Gun Point (Steve)


	5. Gunpoint (Steve)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one's a little late. Fighting sun poisoning after running a booth at a craft bazaar today. Also this prompt is one of the ones that gave me trouble. I didn't proofread before posting because I wanted to get it out for my own sake, so I'll go over it again in the morning.

“Thanks, Steve,” Rosie pushed the new shipment of cigarette cartons behind the counter. “Do you think you could face the soft drinks? Some kids were back there screwing around earlier.”

Castiel gave the Gas-N-Sip cashier an awkward thumb's-up. “I'm on it.” It had taken him a few days to learn that “facing” part of the store meant turning all the product to face forward and not just to stare at it, and he was rather proud of that knowledge.

Rosie offered a sunny smile and started cracking open the boxes, kneeling awkwardly to keep her very pregnant stomach out of the way. Castiel made his way to the back aisle, pausing now and then to straighten an errant item on one of the endcaps. Nora had said they were in the running for some kind of cleanest store in the district contest, and he was determined to do his part.

The soft drink coolers were very untidy. Castiel couldn't understand why someone would think it was funny to pull all the energy drinks out and replace them upside-down, but maybe he should ask Dean-

No. His stomach clenched at the thought of his friend. _“You're better than this.”_ No, this was his world now, not Dean's, and he would deal with it.

He started pulling bright green energy drink cans and groaned in irritation to see that someone had not only turned the cans upside-down but had also mixed them up in each row. He'd have to empty the entire cooler and restock it, a task that would take far longer than anticipated.

Customers had entered the store since he'd walked to the coolers, and Castiel was just debating on if it was worth it to restock the energy drinks he'd already taken out before going to the back for one of the stock carts or to just leave them on the shelf opposite when he heard Rosie's gasp.

Castiel glanced up in the mirror at the back corner of the store and saw a couple of men—teenagers, maybe—wearing out-of-season ski mask and brandishing guns in the cashier's face.

There was an emergency call button under the first register for situations like this, but Rosie had been at the far end of the counter with the cigarettes and would not be able to reach it fast enough due to her pregnancy.

Everyone talked about it. How if they were ever held up they'd grab the bat Sean kept just inside the door to the backroom. How they'd wrestle the gun away from the robbers and hold them off until the police arrived. But Nora gave everyone strict instructions—you hit the emergency button to summon the police and you cooperated quietly. No heroics over the cash in the till or safe.

But Rosie couldn't reach the button, and one of the masked men had a handful of her hair and the barrel of his gun under her chin and was yelling at her to move faster.

Maybe heroics were okay to save a coworker.

“Can I help you find something?” Castiel asked, stepping smoothly in between the gunmen so their focus was drawn to him. The one holding Rosie's hair just glared, brown eyes hard behind the black knit mask.

“We want the money in the register.”

“Well, I can certainly get that for you,” Castiel took another step toward him, stopping as the gun was now pointing at him instead of Rosie. “If you would let my associate go, I think we can work something out.”

“You think you're funny?”

“Actually, I have been told I lack a sense of humor.”

The man holding Rosie snarled and shoved her to the ground, storming forward to grab a fistful of Castiel's shirt and shove the gun under his chin. “How about this, you think it's funny?”

He was shorter than Castiel. But the former angel held his hands out from his sides, palms outward, to show that he meant no aggression. He was very familiar with the sort of damage a weapon like this could do and had no intention of testing his human body's healing abilities any further.

The man sneered and pointed the gun directly between Castiel's eyes. “I blow your brains out, is that funny?”

Castiel found himself staring more closely at the weapon than he'd intended. He blinked, head tilting to one side as he noticed something. “You've left the safety on,” he offered.

The man hit him in the face. A swift blow, with the butt of his gun, to the bridge of Castiel's nose. He blinked back the sparks that exploded in his eyes, vaguely aware of the man shaking and yelling at him through the ringing in his ears. His eyes finally focused just in time to see the man flick the safety off.

_No!_ Rosie had crawled behind the counter to slap the emergency call button and the man who'd hit Castiel was moving toward her.

:He reacted without thinking. Castiel gripped the gunman's wrist and tangled his own foot between the gunman's. The masked man fell with a yelp, twisting to level his gun at Castiel.

Castiel dove on top of him, wrestling for control of the weapon. It fired, the sound deafening in the small space, and white-hot pain lanced across his side but he refused to yield. Rosie was screaming and crying, and the other robber had fled the moment he realized the police were on the way.

“You little bastard,” the gunman hissed, driving his knee into the wound in Castiel's side. “You'll pay for this.”

“Gas-N-Sip has excellent medical benefits,” Castiel gritted out. Even if he'd lost hold of the gun, he could still control the other man's arms by leveraging his own greater height (little bastard indeed) to hold the man in an arm lock.

Rosie hobbled around the corner with the bat from the backroom in her hands and smashed the gunman's fingers until he released his gun, which she knocked across the room.

Castiel relaxed slightly at this, some of the fight going out of the masked robber. He took this moment to study his coworker, who was leaned against the counter with one hand supporting her stomach. “Are you going into labor, Rosie?”

“What?” the young woman blinked, face still streaked with tears. She managed a trembling smile. “Steve, I have over two months to go. We just got scared.”

Castiel nodded. He gingerly wiped the side of his mouth against his sleeve, frowning at the bloodstain. Maybe he should ask Dean-

No, not Dean. Never Dean. There had to be someone else who knew how to get blood out of clothes.

There was some splattered on the floor, and as the sirens approached he leaned a little closer to growl into the gunman's ear.

“You'd better not have lost us the cleanest store in the district.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I made Cas a little too smooth, but eh. Ugh, when Dean says "You're better than this" I hurt every time, because I've worked retail for the last twelve+ years and I always feel like that's what people think about me (even though I was lucky enough to get a really good job).
> 
> Next time: Dragged Away (Juliet)


	6. Dragged Away (Juliet)

Teeth bared, the demon broke through the barrier. “Winchester!”

Dean barely broke stride, unloading half a clip of sanctified rounds into the demon's face as it charged him. “Well?”

Rowena shook her head, still tracing over part of the intricate carvings on the wall. “It's in Gaelic but it's all jumbled,” the witch replied. “Fergus must have used a code.”

Further down the passage, Sam jabbed an angel blade into another demon, angling up so that the demonic presence sparked out. “Can you decode it?”

“Please,” Rowena scoffed. “I know everything about that boy. There isn't a trick he could have come up with that I couldn't solve.”

Dean rolled his eyes and refocused his efforts on protecting the witch. Having her as an ally was certainly unusual, even if she had been helpful in the past. But Sam was adamant that people could change, even centuries-old witches apparently, and wanted to give her a shot to prove herself.

“Crowley must have been keeping something important here,” Sam commented as he rejoined Dean.

The older Winchester shrugged in reply. Crowley had always been...Crowley. Dean missed him, in an odd way, but he had always been inscrutable.

“Winchester!”

Dean rolled his eyes again and turned to face the new enemy. “Why do these guys keep yelling our name?”

Sam had no answer, but easily ducked a swing from the first demon in the group to plunge his blade into the demon's back.

“And why do they keep coming?” Dean sidestepped the second demon then grabbed it by the back of the shirt to use its own momentum to swing it into the wall.

“There!” Rowena called, making a show of standing back and dusting off her hands. “I told you I could get it.”

Sam tried to call out a warning as a demon slipped past him and made straight for the witch.

Only to be caught by an invisible force.

Rowena had pressed herself to the side of the passage and stared on with wide eyes as the demon seemed to be held in the air by an unseen hand and shaken back and forth.

The demon was tossed down the hall to the others and an eerie, other-worldly growl filled the passage and nearly stopped Dean's heart.

He could feel the claws in his chest, tearing his soul free from his body and dragging him down into hell. The claws and teeth that pulled and tore until he was delivered in bloody strips to Alistair to be put back together for the first of his “lessons”.

It was a hellhound.

“Dean!” Sam was grabbing him by the arm, tugging him away from the panicked demons being chased down by the nearly-visible monster. “We have to go before it comes back!”

“I don't understand,” Rowena was standing in the doorway to the hidden chamber. “This isn't what was supposed to be in here.”

Sam very nearly pulled Dean into the room beyond, and they stopped just beside the witch to stare into the room.

There was a powder-pink dog bed, massive enough to fit two king-sized mattresses. Some kind of automatic food and water dispenser (that on closer inspection delivered blood and an expensive gourmet dog kibble), a pile of well-chewed bones that looked like they came from a creature not of this world...

And a jacket. Tucked up in one corner of the massive bed was tailored dress jacket, exactly like Crowley had always worn.

“Hey, Dean?”

The hellhound was back. It was little more than a shifting outline and a pair of burning eyes on this plain, but it was crouched in the hallway staring at them.

As he looked closer, Dean could swear he saw, just around the hellhound's neck, the slightest hint of something pink and studded with rhinestones.

“Juliet!” Rowen lifted her skirt with both hands and dashed for the crouching hellhound, flinging her arms around its neck when she reached it. “Auch, you poor girl! I've been looking for you!”

For her part, Juliet seemed to lower her head to tuck Rowena between her neck and jaw and gave a sad little whimper (that still sounded like something out of a nightmare).

“Guess she misses Crowley, too,” Sam murmured, taking another look at the lavish apartment Crowley had set up for his favorite hellhound. “Maybe he thought he wasn't coming back and this was to keep her safe.”

Dean rubbed a hand down her face. “Well, it can't fit in Baby.”

Rowena faced him with a scoff. “_She_ doesn't have to travel in this dimension. It's merely convenient.

“Well, where's _she_ gonna live? She can't come back to the bunker.”

“With me, of course,” Rowena gently patted the hellhound's nose. “I can't leave the poor dear alone. I have an estate an hour from Glastonbury. It would be nice to see someone using it.”

“Are you sure, Rowena?” Sam asked, angel blade still in hand. “It's a hellhound, it's not exactly a teacup poodle.”

“Yeah, and whose estate was it originally?”

Rowena ignored him and turned back to lavish more attention on the hellhound. Dean rolled his eyes, but there was something oddly touching about the whole scene.

It was obvious Sam and Dean weren't the ones who missed Crowley the most. Maybe, just maybe it was a good thing Rowena and Juliet had found their way to each other.

Juliet coughed up what appeared to be a bit of scalp, scraggly hair still clinging to it. Dean shuddered and looked away as Rowena praised the hellhound.

Or maybe this was a terrible mistake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still sick from sun poisoning. Always wear sunscreen guys.
> 
> I don't know, maybe it's the sickness but I could really use a hug and some encouragement. Maybe I need to get a hellhound.
> 
> Next time: Isolation (Deprivation)--serious warning for violence on this one, folks.


	7. Isolation (Deprivation)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the chapter that made the graphic violence warning for the whole fic. I think it still has a T rating, but please let me know if you think this pushes it higher.
> 
> Tiny content warning--a character is licked, but it isn't sexual. Just disgusting monster behavior.

He didn't even know what held him prisoner.

It had taken him down easily enough, just a glimpse of teeth and claws and the stench of decay, before a few cruel slashes across his eyes had blinded Castiel.

Then the rest of his body, attacks alternating between claws and fists. One horrible tear of the claws ripped through his clothing to shred the skin beneath, followed by hammer-like punches that shattered ribs and snapped his tibia when he tried to defend himself. His stomach, legs, battered chest, even his ruined eyes were targets of the beast's rage as it clawed and beat him until he finally lost consciousness.

He had snapped awake to a smothering darkness, hands bound above his head just high enough for his feet to touch the floor. Castiel could feel that the shackles holding his hands were carved with sigil work—not Enochian, which would have been familiar to him, but something older and darker that still had the power to subdue an angel's grace. It let him have enough to stay alive, but he would never be able to heal the worst of his injuries or escape on his own.

And his feet. He shifted his weight and instantly regretted it as his bare soles touched down on something that felt like broken glass. Castiel gave a little hiss of pain, then cried out as a horrible thunder echoed around him.

It took a moment to figure that part out. From the closeness of the air he could determine that he was in a closet, or maybe a container of some kind. Something just tight enough to hem him in but not so much that he could reach the walls. And the walls themselves were metal, perhaps tin.

“H-hello?” Castiel rasped out. The horrible thunder sounded again, and he realized his captor was banging on the walls of his prison. “Who are you?”

Metal screeched, different from the pounding sound, and the air shifted as the creature stormed in. One clawed hand grabbed Castiel under the chin and pulled him up as a fist slammed into his stomach. He coughed and retched pathetically, unable to turn away as the filthy smell of the creature's mouth approached his face.

The thing growled, its free hand raking claws up Castiel's body to cover his mouth.

The message was clear. No more noise.

It dropped him suddenly, leaving him scrambling for footing atop the broken glass. Castiel whimpered as one foot slipped and his falling weight jerked at the shackles above him. The creature whirled around again with a growl and the angel flinched back, expecting another blow. He heard the thing give a snort instead, and next thing Castiel knew the beast had wrapped one of its hands around the shackles to pull Castiel close to its face again and...lick.

He cried out in disgust and tried to turn away but a clawed hand around his throat held him steady as that foul tongue lathed over the wounds in his neck and shoulder.

“Angel.”

It took Castiel a moment to realize the beast had spoken. The word was almost subsonic, almost more a psychic projection than an actual sound.

“For hunters.”

No. He tensed to fight against the creature that held him, anything to protect his family from this agony. “No!”

He hadn't even realized he'd spoken aloud until the creature's hand clamped over his mouth, thumb and forefinger pinching his nose shut. Castiel didn't need to breathe but being smothered was an unpleasant sensation at the best of times. The beast's other hand cradled the back of the angel's head almost gently, long claws scraping at his scalp.

“Angel. Mine.”

* * *

Castiel couldn't tell how many days had passed since his imprisonment. He was left alone in the dark and silence until his mind cried for some relief, then the thing would bang on the walls or deliver further wounds to his exhausted body.

Then he would be alone again, and time would drag on until he could no longer determine if it was his own ragged breathing or that of the creature outside his small cell.

He almost didn't notice the small sound of a dart gun somewhere beyond the tin walls, until his captor let out a bellow of pain and charged out away from the cell. There were more sounds, familiar ones—a gun firing, the hissing of flames, a familiar voice calling in warning.

And silence again. Castiel let his head rest against one arm, trying to extend his senses to read any presence beyond his own, but the shackles were too powerful.

Had it been a hallucination? He'd had a few, though there was almost always a visual element to those despite his ruined eyes. Could it be real? Castiel tried to make a noise, but his bare feet only scraped on the rough ground and his voice cracked before it could leave his throat.

He flinched back bodily when the door to the cell creaked open, expecting the creature's foul breath and menacing presence.

“Oh, god, Cas,” Sam whispered.

Castiel tried to reply, but his throat just squeezed and no sound came out.

“Hang on, I'm gonna get you down.”

He still startled back when hands closed around his forearms, the break in his tibia long ago fused at a bad angle. But the touch was gentle, not harsh, as Sam eased his arms free and gently supported him as his knees refused to hold his full weight.

Castiel let his head rest against Sam's shoulder as the hunter half-carried him out of the cell to the larger room beyond. The softness of the fabric, the familiar smell of gunpowder and detergent, and the light thrumming of Sam's soul under his skin were a true comfort after his captivity.

“Sam, did you—son of a bitch.”

“I think he's in shock, Dean.”

A rough hand gently cupped his cheek and neck and brought him around toward the older Winchester. “His eyes,” Dean whispered. “Sammy, his eyes.”

“Here, if you take him I'll work on the cuffs. Maybe they're blocking his grace.”

Castiel tried to work up a reply but his throat merely spasmed again. Instead he buried his face in Dean's shoulder and inhaled the other hunter's scent, taking what joy he could in the feeling of Dean's soul.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean's hand cradled the back of Castiel's head in a bizarre parody to the creature's behavior, though this touch was gentle and soothing. “Dammit. I'm so sorry, Cas.”

The shackles finally popped open as Sam gave a little sigh of elief. “What even are these?” the younger Winchester asked. “I don't recognize the sigils at all.”

“Yeah, well, you can geek out later,” Dean struggled to his feet, pulling Castiel up with him. “Let's get out of here.”

* * *

Dean glanced up from his position on the bed, reading through an old paperback he'd found in one of the cabinets, as the door to their hotel room swung open to reveal Sam with a handful of bags from the local Walmart. “Find the right tea, Sammy?”

Sam shot him a bitch face. “The Korean grocery was closed, I'll have to try again in the morning. How's Cas?”

The older Winchester let his hand drop to the dark hair that was almost all that was visible of the angel tucked under the blankets. “He's out,” Dean replied. “Think that goop we put on his eyes will work?”

“It can't hurt,” Sam started unloading his bags on the little hotel table. “Myrrh, hyssop, and holy water to heal and purify. The right kind of tea should make his throat more comfortable.”

Dean winced, letting his hand stroke over Cas's hair again. They figured his voice was just paralyzed from lack of use or the trauma to his throat, but he hadn't been able to make more than a whisper since they'd rescued him almost a day before.

Now Cas was buried under a mound of blankets, his face pressed into Dean's hip and one arm thrown across the hunter's knees, hopefully deep in a healing sleep. Sam knelt down next to the bed and gently pulled back on the strips of bandage covering Cas's eyes. “Should probably change these,” he commented. “Want me to take a shift with him?”

“Nah,” Dean set the book facedown beside him, stretching his arms overhead so his back cracked. “I'm good for a couple hours, why don't you get a shower and a nap first?”

“Bandages first,” Sam replied, moving his hand to Castiel's shoulder to gently shake the angel awake.

Cas took the waking like he always did—with a grunt of compliant and an attempt to further wrap himself around whichever Winchester he was attached to.

“Never known you to be this clingy,” Dean teased, easing Cas back and up to sit against the pillows.

“Probably because he was isolated for so long.”

It had been six weeks since Cas last left the bunker, and they wouldn't know how much of that he'd spent with that...whatever it was...until he was more coherent.

But hey, at least holy fire and angel blades worked on horrible, toothy monsters that smelled like they'd been eating kitty litter.

“S-sa-am,” Cas nearly whined as the younger hunter probed the wounds on his chest.

“Hey, look at you,” Dean cheered, patting Cas on the leg. “That was almost a whole word.”

He completely deserved the huff of annoyance from the angel, but it was good to see a little bit of the Cas he knew instead of the shattered, wounded victim they'd first found.

“All right,” Sam gently unwound the bandage from Castiel's face. “Looks like that thing left some kind of poison or bacteria behind, but the poultice is pulling it out. You should be back to normal in no time.

Cas's hand flashed up and grabbed Sam around the wrist. “Sam?” he whispered.

“Yeah?” Sam looked up into Cas's eyes.

His clear, focused eyes, even surrounded as they were by the still-healing claw marks.

“Cas, can you see me?”

Dean let out a whoop when Cas nodded and gently wrapped one arm around the angel's shoulders. “Sorry the first thing you had to see was Sam's ugly face,” he teased.

Sam snorted. “Jerk”

Dean gave Cas one last pat on the back and leaned back across the bed for his book. “Bitch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't written something like this since nineteen-aught-four when I wrote for Lord of the Rings. I'd really value any feedback.
> 
> Next time: Stab Wound (Flicker)


	8. Stab Wound (Flicker)

Claire slipped her Grigori blade into the special inner pocket of her jacket as she picked her way through the overgrown lot of the old textile warehouse. Her phone, on mute in her hip pocket, kept vibrating with incoming texts that she ignored.

It had been a habit, staying in touch with Castiel over the last few months. It was one of the conditions Jody let her travel under—she could contact Jody or Castiel with updates, and at least she could browbeat Castiel into staying quiet about her plans most of the time.

But of course, this was the rare occasion where he tried to run her life. She'd just sent him a picture of one of the local businesses (it was a South American restaurant with a life-sized stone capybara out front), but he'd picked out the town name and somehow discovered the demonic omens she was investigating. And, of course, poor little Claire couldn't handle a demon on her own. She'd been ordered—_ordered—_to stay put and wait for him.

Like that was going to happen. She'd been hunting for nearly four years now; it wasn't that hard to take down a demon.

Something went wrong the moment she walked into the warehouse. There was a burst of light, a whoosh of flames, and when she blinked the stars out of her vision she was surrounded by a ring of fire.

“Well, well, well,” a man—a demon—stepped out into the open and studied her with beetle-black eyes. “You're not who I was expecting.”

“Thought you said the angel was following us, Quincy,” another demon complained, coming up on Claire's other side.

“He is. We just caught an arrogant little monkey first.” Quincy waved a hand and the flames around Claire disappeared. Before she could move to attack he flicked the same hand up and she flew several feet to land against a pillar. “Castiel would never send one of his precious humans ahead of him,” Quincy continued, looming over Claire as she lay pinned by his powers. “Just who are you?”

Claire grit her teeth and the demon pawed through her pockets. He tossed her phone out of reach, but held up her blade with interest. “Haven't seen one of these in a while,” Quincy murmured, then made a triumphant sound as he tugged her wallet free from her back pocket. He flipped it open and burst out laughing when he saw her ID.

“Hey, Max,” Quincy tossed the wallet to his compatriot. “Take a look at what we have.”

Max squinted at the picture. “Novak?”

“That's the vessel's name, according to the boss. So,” he turned back to Claire, “here to avenge daddy's killer? Or maybe helping him?”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Claire snapped. She hated when these supernatural weirdos knew everything about her. Bad enough that her father had been replaced by some barely-functional angel without every demon she came up against knowing about it.

“I don't think so,” Quincy replied, tapping the tip of her sword to her cheek. “I think daddy's coming to rescue his princess.”

“He's not my father,” Claire snarled.

“Ooh, touchy,” Quincy twisted his fist in her hair and pulled her to her feet, tracing the blade down her cheek to her neck. “Let's see how loud you can pray to him, hmm?”

Max started to yell something in warning, but there was a flash of sizzling light and he dropped to the floor.

“Let her go.”

Claire had never seen her father's face so angry. In life Jimmy had been fairly non-confrontational, preferring to escape conflict rather than cause it. Castiel, however, was a warrior, and every line of Jimmy's face—of _his_ face—was twisted with rage.

“Finally,” Quincy sneered and drove the Grigori sword into Claire's stomach, pinning her to the beam behind her. “Wait right there, princess.”

Claire clutched at the hilt protruding from her belly, blood slicking her hands. Her vision was flickering in and out, the world around her somehow muffled and bright at once. She forced her head up to watch Castiel fight Quincy. The angel and demon seemed nearly matched in the battle, Quincy having pulled an angel blade from somewhere.

The Grigori sword was longer. Claire fought to tug the blade free, even if it killed her, to throw to the angel to aid in the battle.

Because even if he killed her father, he was trying to atone. Maybe not to her, and he'd been too late for her mother, but every one of his dorky texts or blurry pictures of rocks he found interesting had chipped away at her heart a little. Maybe she could never forgive him, but maybe it was okay to like him a little.

“No, Claire!” Castiel held a hand out toward her and what little progress she'd made freeing the sword halted. She let out a growl of frustration, which turned into a painful cough as blood filled her throat. She was dying anyway, what did it matter if she did one last thing?

Quincy gave a shout of triumph and lunged, but apparently it was something Castiel had been waiting for as the angel easily sidestepped the blade and plunged his own into the demon's back.

Quincy's corpse hadn't even hit the floor before Castiel was at her side. “Don't move, Claire.”

Claire coughed up at him, blood smearing her teeth as she tried to smile. “Idiot,” she rasped, but didn't have the breath for anything else.

Castiel gently rested one hand on her forehead and wrapped the other around the hilt of the sword. “You're not an angel, so I can heal this wound. I'll be quick, but you might still feel some pain.”

Before she could react, he slid the sword out in one smooth movement and a warm, tingling _something_ rushed through her veins. Claire ran one hand down her stomach and found the wound healed, though the holes in her clothing remained. “Thanks,” she muttered, bending over to pick up her belongings where the demons had thrown them.

“Claire.”

Great. He had a dad-voice. She wasn't getting out of this without a lecture. Though maybe she owed it to him after he saved her life.

“I asked you to wait for me.”

“Yeah, well, I thought I could handle it.”

“I've been following these demons for three days now. They're after one of Lucifer's crypts.”

Claire flipped her hair back and shot him a look. “You couldn't have told me that?”

Castiel glanced down at the ground between them. “I texted you.”

On the ground her phone was in pieces where Quincy had thrown it. Claire scuffed over them with one foot. “Well, sorry. And thanks for...you know, coming after me.”

When she glanced up at him he wasn't exactly smiling, but his shoulders were a bit more relaxed.

Castiel was not and never would be her father. But maybe...maybe he could be a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost didn't do this today, between what I'd chosen for the prompt and everything else going on. Lack of feedback or reviews is a little discouraging for me, but I know this is only the third thing I've posted and I'm not being very careful with it. So I'm just gonna do my best!
> 
> Next time: Shackled (Flight)


	9. Shackled (Flight)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank Chuck my father's heart catheter went well this morning. Which is why I'm here to offer you this delightful tale of Winchester Luck (TM).
> 
> This is loosely based off a book I read as a child, "Danger in the Yukon" by Jeri Massi. So if you've read that book and this scenario seems familiar, it's an homage.
> 
> If you haven't read that book...this scenario is an homage to the book "Danger in the Yukon" by Jeri Massi.

Dean growled as another blade on the cheap pocketknife snapped. “I could have shot him.”

“He's just a crazy old man, Dean,” Sam leaned his head back against the rough wood of the shed. As annoying as it was to be stripped of their weapons and shackled to the timber upright of an old shed out in the middle of nowhere, he still couldn't condone killing a civilian who had nothing to do with the haunted Tarot cards they'd been tracking down.

“Yeah, crazy like—son of a bitch!” Dean jerked his hand away as another blade snapped, nicking his thumb.

“Here, let me take it,” Sam offered. They'd been taking turns with the pocketknife Dean had managed to lift from their captor, though it wasn't exactly made to saw through a beam like this. 

Dean passed it over and glared at the wound in his hand for a minute before he leaned back to rest. “Can't believe I lost the lockpick. Dad would've killed me for this.”

Sam grunted in reply as he tried to use the little knife's file to scrape away some of what Dean had cut out. “We can almost break through this,” he offered.

The older Winchester squinted at the pole between them. If only the crazy old coot hadn't wrapped the cuff chain around the beam, they would have been able to stand to get the leverage they needed. The shed itself was built roughly, with the walls and ceiling made from woven branches and straw. The particular branch they were cuffed around forked a few inches above their hands, leaving them with the thicker part to saw through.

The blade in Sam's hand snapped. “That was the last one,” he said, testing the crack they'd manged to cut in the beam between them. Dean shuffled up into an awkward crouch and Sam crawled under his brother's outstretched arm until their positions had been reversed, though facing the shed wall this time.

As one, the brothers braced their feet on the wall and slid the cuff's chain into the crack of the branch and pulled. The wall creaked ominously, and for a moment Sam was afraid they'd only knock the wall away and be no further than where they started. Then the beam snapped, the chain popped free, and Sam hit his brother in the face when he couldn't stop his momentum.

Dean had opened his mouth to bitch when they heard the rumble of tires on the gravel outside the shed. The older Winchester was on his feet in a moment, the cuff tugging painfully at Sam's wrist as Dean leaned out the window to check. “He's here.”

Sam peered over his brother's shoulder. “We should go.

Dean nodded. They exited the trailer and were pulled to a stop as both tried to head an opposite direction. Dean toward the man who'd held them captive, Sam to the woods that would lead them back to the Impala.

“Dean!” Sam hissed. “We can get your stuff later, let's go.”

“He has my gun!”

A loud whoop from the man who'd chained them up and the thud of a bullet just over Sam's head gave the Winchester the momentum he needed. He tugged Dean after him and fled into the woods, having to shorten his steps so his brother could keep up.

“Get down!” Dean shouted, shoving him from behind. Sam hit the dirt, his ribs finding the first exposed tree root, then the rest of him finding the slight embankment behind the tree. He rolled down, the minor pain of his wrist being tugged toward Dean lessening as the older Winchester rolled after him.

There was a creek at the bottom. Of course there was a creek at the bottom. Sam landed one arm in the water, but tried to pull away to keep Dean from throwing him in further. Of course, as they were still cuffed together, all he managed to do was sprawl awkwardly across his older brother as Dean face-planted in the mud at the creek's edge.

“Get offa me,” Dean groused and shoved at Sam. “Son of a bitch, do you ever eat? You're all elbows.”

Sam snorted but didn't reply, giving his brother an ungracious hand back to his feet. “He'll have heard that.”

“Geez, ya think, Sammy?”

Another shot thudded into the woods above them. The Winchesters shared a look then took off down the creek bed. “I think this creek runs past the ranger station,” Sam panted. He gave up trying to match pace with Dean and just grabbed his brother's sleeve, taking the pressure off the cuffs on their wrists. 

“Good,” Dean snarled, shoving his way through the underbrush to reach dry land when the embankment leveled out. “Ranger stations have guns.”

“And radios,” Sam ducked his head to follow his brother's path through the tangles. He was taller, but Dean could shoulder his way through solid rock if he was determined enough. “Maybe keys to handcuffs. Maybe they know who that guy is.”

Dean suddenly dodged to one side, taking Sam even further off course. “What are you...”

The older Winchester yanked on their cuffed wrists, free hand held up in warning. 

Sam could hear it now. The crazy old man was calling something in a sing-song voice, taking potshots at the growth around them. Dean pointed up. Sam nodded. Heading for higher ground would lead back to the nature trail they'd taken that morning, which was hardened earth and would leave fewer tracks.

They waited until they heard a splash as the old man floundered a bit in the creek, then the Winchesters bolted uphill. Sam focused on keeping his head down, watching his footing, following Dean's erratic changes in direction. The sun would be setting soon, and if they hadn't found the trail by then they'd be at this maniac's mercy in the darkness of night.

Behind them he heard a shriek of triumph as the old man spotted them, then the percussion of wild shots hitting the trees around them. Sam could have sworn he heard a few pass right by his head, but the real blow came when Dean stumbled and cried out.

He couldn't even think. Sam hauled his brother back to his feet, practically holding him up to support him, and tried to keep them running uphill.

Dean was swatting his hands away. “Just a scratch,” the older Winchester panted. “I'm fine, let's go.”

Another bullet slammed into the tree right above them, and Dean half-fell, half-pulled Sam into a sprawling juniper thicket. There was barely enough room for them to crawl through, awkward as it was with them handcuffed together. Sam could only see the blood spreading across Dean's side. 

“Sammy!” With a start, Sam realized his brother was yanking on the handcuff chain for him to crawl forward. “Whaddya think?”

Sam peered around Dean's head, some of the tension in his shoulders bleeding away as he recognized the lights of the ranger's station. “That's the station.”

Dean grunted. “How fast can you sprint?”

The younger Winchester just stared at his brother for a moment. “You're not serious.”

Dean winked and barreled out of the juniper bushes, Sam scrambling to keep up. “Last one there picks the handcuffs!”

“They probably have keys,” Sam hissed, throwing a quick glance over his shoulder for a sign of their pursuer.

“You saying you can't pick them, Bitch?”

Sam definitely did not laugh, although his snort of disgust might have been confused for one of amusement as he easily outpaced his brother, yanking painfully on the cuffs between them. “I'm saying you might want them, Jerk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Unconscious (Human)


	10. Unconscious (Human)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is set right after the end of Season 13, so it's probably slightly AU.

Sam let the door of the Bunker creak shut behind him, stopping to rub his fingers over his eyes. When the others had finally traced him and Jack to that warehouse, he'd sent them on ahead home with Jack and Nick—who was, surprisingly, still alive—while he tried to follow his brother.

But after thirty-six hours and no sign of Dean, no sign of Michael, he'd come back to the Bunker for a few hours rest and more research.

“Sam?” Mary touched him on the shoulder, startling him out of his thoughts.

“Oh, yeah, hi, Mom.”

She gave him a sad smile, eyes crinkling in a way that reminded him of Dean, and slid her arms around his waist. “We'll find him. It's gonna be okay.”

“I know,” Sam wrapped one arm around her shoulders and rubbed the back of his neck with his other hand. “Is Jack okay?”

“He's with Castiel.”

Sam flinched a little. He'd been so consumed with the thought of finding his brother he hadn't even thought of calling the angel. “How's he doing? I know Dean saying yes must be hard on him.”

Mary leaned back to look up at him. “You don't know?”

Something cold settled in the pit of Sam's stomach. “Know what?”

. . .

They'd kept Cas's room his, despite the number of refugees who needed a place to crash. He'd offered, of course, as he didn't need sleep but Sam couldn't bear taking the room from their angel after everything he'd been through. Besides, they had plenty of room without using what everyone was calling the “family spaces”.

Sam knocked gently on Cas's door and pushed it open. Jack was sitting in an old armchair next to the bed, both legs folded under him, hands loose in his lap as he blinked up at Sam with red-rimmed eyes.

Cas was on the bed. Someone, probably Mary or Bobby, had gotten him dressed in an old sweatshirt Sam didn't remember, the rest of his clothing hidden under a mound of blankets. But his eyes were closed, his face lax, skin pale and beaded with sweat as though sleeping off a fever.

“He won't wake up,” Jack said, his voice cracking slightly. “If I had my powers...”

“Hey, don't think like that,” Sam rested one hand on Jack's shoulder and leaned over to get a better look at Cas. “You don't know if you could do anything. Do you know what happened?”

Jack shrugged, scrubbing one hand over his eyes. “Bobby said they found him like this, next to Michael's body. He won't wake up, but sometimes he moves or tries to talk, always in Enochian.”

Sam sat on the edge of the bed and rested one broad palm on Cas's forehead. “He's freezing.”

“We've tried to keep the blankets warm,” Jack heaved out a sigh. “It didn't do anything.”

Unfortunately, there wasn't much Sam knew about angelic illnesses. “What else have you tried?”

Jack shook his head. “We purified the room, tried healing spells, anti-hexes, everything. And look,” he pulled the blankets back on one side to reveal a glowing wound in Cas's arm. “Someone cut him with an angel blade before I could stop them, to see if he was still an angel, but it's like the wound is just frozen. It won't heal, but it isn't getting worse.”

“It's like he's just in stasis,” Sam said.

The younger man very gently tucked Cas's arm back under the blanket and patted the heap approximately over his surrogate father's heart. “I don't know what to do.”

Sam let out a sigh and placed a hand on Jack's back. “I'm sorry, Jack. But this is something humans just have to deal with.”

“It's not fair,” Jack looked up at Sam, the grief in his eyes making him look even younger.

“No, it isn't.”

. . .

“_Dean!” Castiel threw an arm up as Michael's radiance swallowed the older Winchester. “No!”_

_Dean straightened his shoulders, the suggestion of wings unfolding behind him, eyes glowing bright blue. “It's all right,” he gasped “I can handle it.”_

“_You can't!” Castiel grabbed his friend by the shoulders. “Eject him now, Dean, while you still have time.”_

“_This is the only way,” Dean insisted, prying Castiel's hands off almost gently. “I'll take care of Sam and Jack and we'll be back. Don't worry.”_

“_No!” Castiel grabbed Dean by the front of his shirt and in a last-ditch effort shoved his grace at the foreign presence in his friend's body. “You can't have him!”_

“_Castiel.” Dean's voice had gone cold, and the hands that gripped Castiel's wrists were harder and tighter than a mere human could manage. “That was unwise.”_

_The angel grunted, unable to break free from the archangel's grasp. “Let Dean go. Take me as a vessel instead.”_

“_Oh, but where's the fun in that?” Michael leaned closer, until his head was against Castiel's as though to whisper in his brother's ear. “I don't take hand-me-downs.”_

_With that he pressed a hand against Castiel's chest and a wave of archangel grace slammed into the lesser angel. Castiel's body seized and he collapsed to the floor, conscious fading as Michael unfurled his mighty wings and flew away._

“He's moving again, Sam.”

The voice was distorted, as though through a bad phone connection. Castiel could feel the heavy, cold weight of his paralyzed grace holding his body down, and beyond it sense the souls of Jack and Sam.

So Michael had saved them.

“I think he heard you. Hey, Cas?”

Castiel tried to turn toward the voice, and to his relief his neck cooperated. There were little twinges of pain in his body now, too, as his grace began to awaken after the archangel's attack. A warm hand brushed the hair away from his forehead and Castiel wanted to lean into that touch. He had never been so _cold_ before. Not even as a human.

“Think you can open your eyes?”

He tried. Pain was chasing up and down his spine, across his shoulders to his incorporeal wings. He felt pressure on his other side, and something warm closed around one of his hands.

That was Jack. Even as a human Jack's soul stood out to Castiel. He managed to turn his head toward the boy and felt rewarded when Jack gasped.

“Cas?”

Finally, Castiel managed to crack his eyes open. The world was a blur of light and colors, but as he blinked it slowly slipped into focus.

Jack was leaning over him, dark rings under his eyes and his hair disheveled. As Castiel stared Sam came around to stand next to Jack, one hand resting on Castiel's shoulder. He nearly groaned in relief at the contact. He had felt the cold when his grace was injured in the past, but it had never been this pervasive.

“How do you feel?” Sam asked.

Castiel tried to push himself up, but luckily Sam noticed and slid an arm behind his shoulders to help him. The angel shut his eyes again and clamped his mouth shut against the pain as the hunter rearranged him in the bed, piling up several pillows for him to rest on.

“I will survive,” he ground out.

Jack let out a huge sigh of relief and leaned forward until his head was on the bed next to Castiel's leg. The angel stared down for a moment, then awkwardly freed his hand from the boy's grip to rest it on the back of Jack's head.

“It's good to see you awake,” Sam said. He settled down near the foot of the bed, patting Castiel where he thought the angel's knee was under the blanket.

Castiel nodded. “Dean?”

Sam's face fell and Jack made a soft, distressed sound. “We'll get him back, Cas,” the younger Winchester said. “I promise, we'll get him back.”

The angel let his eyes fall closed and rested his head back against the headboard.

If anyone could pry the chosen vessel away from an archangel, it was the Winchesters.

“We'll get him back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Stitches (Snitches)


	11. Stitches (Snitches)

Mary held the door to the dingy motel room open, stepping inside to be out of the way as her sons limped through. Dean was holding Sam up, the younger Winchester covered in cuts and scratches from an encounter with one of Michael's werewolves.

Dean deposited his brother on the bed and efficiently cut away the scraps of his shirts. “Mom, can you give him something for the pain? I'll get the rest of the bags.” They'd done emergency first aid on Sam, but Dean wanted to clean things out and stitch them up right.

She nodded and dug through the duffle she'd brought in. Some of the medicine had unfamiliar names, but she could recognize morphine anywhere. Mary quickly filled a syringe, calculating what Sam would need from the lessons her father had given her, and injected it with a murmured apology when Sam groaned.

“All right, Sammy,” Dean had returned, dropping the other bags on the floor and pulling off his flannel to drape over the back of the chair. “Looks like we're using the good stuff on you.”

Mary was laying out the surgery implements, including a bottle of a nicer whiskey that her boys didn't usually drink. “Want me to do it?” she asked as she held up the suture kit.

Dean grimaced. “I got it, Mom. Thanks. Just...sit next to his head and braid his hair or something.”

She wanted to roll her eyes. Dean was so bad at expressing emotion sometimes. Learning the Dean Scale of Sarcasm was like learning another language.

Sam giggled.

Dean, whiskey in hand, leaning over the first long tear in his brother's abdomen, stared up at him. “Sammy?”

“What was that soap opera you liked, Dean?”

The older brother flinched, whiskey spilling across Sam's stomach. “Shut up, Sam.”

“It had that guy with the long hair.”

“I said shut up.”

“Dr. Sexy!” Sam sat up, finger shoved into Dean's face to make his point. “You love Dr. Sezy!”

Dean shot a worried look between his mother and brother and tried to lay Sam back on the bed. “Come on, dud, that was nothing.”

“But you were so excited in TV world,” Sam whined. He peered up at his mother, long hair flopped over one eye. “He was _fangirling_,” he said, like he was sharing some dirty secret.

Which, come to think of it, he was.

Mary bit the inside of her cheek to hold her laughter in. “Do you like Dr. Sexy, Sam?” she asked, running one hand through his hair.

Sam screwed up his face in a scowl, wiggling a little as Dean began stitching the first of his wounds. “No. And I didn't like having herpes.”

“I swear to god, Sammy...”

“But it tickles!” Sam shoved at Dean's hands, trying to squirm away.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean lunged forward to pin his brother down on the bed. “You might have to do the stitching, Mom. I don't know what's gotten into him.”

Sam giggled again as Mary took up Dean's spot. “I feel floaty, Dean.”

“Goddammit.”

Mary paused, clipping the final suture on the first cut. “What is it?”

“What did you give him?”

“Morphine?”

“Dammit...no, Sammy, stay!” Dean fumbled around in the bedside table and managed to find a pen. “I really need you to explain this to me,” he said, handing the pen to a suddenly-docile Sam.

“Dean?” Mary had moved up to the next wound, one down Sam's thigh that looked like it had stopped bleed on its own. “What's wrong.”

Dean scrubbed one hand down his face. “He gets like this with morphine. Dunno why, but it's always made him a little...giggly.”

“Oh,” Mary glanced down, trying to focus on the wound beneath her hands. “I'm sorry.”

“Hey, you couldn't have known,” Dean patted her shoulder and headed for the duffle she'd been looking through before. “Think those just need a dressing?”

Sam was giggling again. “Mom, you're pretty.”

“I think so,” Mary replied, trying to ignore her younger son's hands “Yes, Sammy, thank you.”

“Dean thinks you're pretty, too,” Sam whispered.

Mary glanced over to see her older son duck his head, ears turning pink. “Well, that's nice.”

“He has a picture of you in his wallet.”

“And I have pictures of both of you.”

“He used to talk to it when he thought I was asleep.”

“Okay!” Dean leaped across the room to slap one hand across Sam's mouth, passing a handful of gauze and some antibiotic ointment to Mary. “That's enough out of you, Sammy. Remember, snitches get stitches.”

Sam fought to shove Dean's hand away, glaring up at his brother. “I'm already getting stitches, Dean,” he announced, somehow managing a bitch-face despite the drug in his system. “That means I get to snitches.”

Mary couldn't hold it back anymore. She buried her face in her hands and burst out laughing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just something short and silly for Friday.
> 
> Next time: "Don't Move" (Collapse)


	12. "Don't Move" (Collapse)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rough day. Kind of short and light on the whump.

They'd just meant to stop in for a minute to see Jody, but finding her up to her elbows in a pair of missing middle school kids had Sam and Dean volunteering to join the search party. Supernatural or not, there was too much in the forests around Sioux Falls to just leave a couple of kids to fend for themselves,

Less than a day into the search Dean found the shaft.

Nearly a hundred years of dry rot couldn't hold up to two hundred pounds of Winchester, and as he and Sam were clearing another grid on Jody's map Dean's feet went straight through the flimsy cover of the old mine.

“Dean!”

Sam rushed to the spot where Dean had disappeared. The timber had cracked, revealing a hole about six feet across sinking down into the darkness beneath the earth. “Dean?”

Dean coughed for a moment, then Sam saw the beam of his brother's flashlight click on. “Sam?”

“Up here,” Sam pulled out his own light and shone it down over his brother. The pit was maybe fifteen feet deep, filled with old timber and some broken stone. “You hurt?”

The older Winchester was half-lying among the broken wood, one leg stretched out at an odd angle. “I'm good.”

“Your leg looks bad,” Sam replied. “Don't move, I'll come down and get you.”

Sam leaned back to dig in his bag for the coil of rope he'd tucked away this morning, ignoring his brother's sarcastic voice echoing up the mine shaft. They'd known there was an old underground mine in this area, and Jody had thought all the air shafts were marked on the map.

Well, if they missed one of the shafts they might have missed more. “Hey, you see any signs of anything down there?” Sam called as he lashed his rope around a nearby tree.

“What?”

“This branch of the mine isn't on the map. Any sign those kids are down there?”

Dean cursed, and as Sam leaned back over the edge to throw his rope down he saw the beam of his brother's light searching the tunnel around him. “Sammy?”

Sam met his brother's gaze and swallowed at the tight expression on Dean's face. “What is it?”

“Something with claws.”

Claws. Right. “Hey, think fast,” Sam shouted, tossing his bag into the hole before climbing down after it. He heard Dean swear as the canvas thudded against the rock and grinned a little as he eased himself down.

“You good?” Sam asked, crouching next to his brother.

“Sam.”

Sam glanced over, following the path of Dean's light. The claw marks were old, probably twenty or more years old. Sam held his hand up to them, trying to match the claw spacing with his fingers. “Werewolf?” he asked over his shoulder.

“Maybe. Did Bobby ever talk about one this close to Sioux Falls?”

“Not that I remember,” Sam shrugged. “I'm gonna check the tunnel, think you'll be okay for a few minutes?”

“Nope,” Dean started shoving pieces of wood aside. “You're not going down there alone.”

“Dean, don't move,” Sam hurried back and planted a hand on his brother's shoulder to hold him down. “Your knee looks swollen, just rest for a second. I'm not going far.”

He ignored his brother's growl of complaint and darted down the tunnel, following the faint trail left by the claw marks in the walls. Some of them were fresher, maybe even a few years old, but nothing indicated there was anything down here but dust and mildew.

The far end of the tunnel was blocked by a landslide, which probably explained why this shaft hadn't been on the map. And possibly the age of the claw marks, if whatever had lived in these tunnels hadn't been down this way since the cave-in.

Sam turned back around to pick his way back, studying the claw marks a little more closely. Maybe whatever had lived here had thought there was still gold in the mine and tried to dig for it.

When he got closer to where he'd left Dean his heart stopped. His brother was on the ground, backed up against a fallen beams, both hands held out as though to protect himself from the ragged figure that loomed over him. “Hey!” Sam grabbed his flashlight in both hands—why did he leave the weapons behind?—and lunged for the creature.

“Sam, freeze!”

Dean rarely used that tone of voice with him any more. Sam pulled up short, flashlight still held high, and towered over the creature that stood in front of his brother.

“See? I told you my brother was even taller than me,” Dean said, his tone of voice softening. “Heya, Sam. I'd like you to meet Shiloh.”

Sam lowered his hands, finally realizing the thing in front of him was a little girl, face smeared with dirt except for a few tear trails. “Shiloh?”

“She and her buddy were trying to go camping when they found this really cool cave,” Dean explained. Apparently Shiloh had decided she could trust Dean and scurried around behind his shoulder to peer up at Sam. “But then, wouldn't you know it, the roof fell in. Now her buddy Jake is stuck and Shiloh didn't know how to get out until we came crashing down.”

Sam got down to one knee and tried to see the girl over his brother's shoulder. “Hey there, Shiloh. Think you can show me where Jake is?”

The girl clutched at Dean's shirt, but he reached one arm back and scooped her around in front of him. “Go on, go with Sam and I'll call your mom, okay?”

The little girl's face lit up and she reached out for Sam's hand to tug him down the end of the tunnel he hadn't explored. “Hey, Dean?” he called over his shoulder.

“I know, I know,” the older Winchester had pulled the bag of their gear closer and was digging out the two-way radio Jody had given them. “I'll stay right here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next Time: Adrenaline (Inferno)


	13. Adrenaline (Inferno)

Cas and Jack were easy to spot the moment Sam and Dean entered the hotel lobby. In an area plagued by hipster coffee snobs and new-money “semi-board-smart-casual” business attire a tan trench coat and a bright blue windbreaker stuck out.

Dean nodded a greeting to the two of them and sat down in front of the large coffee Cas had set down. At least the northwest could get something right. “So what's the deal?”

“It has to be a dragon,” Jack stated. He had one of those fruity drinks, the kind that were layers of bright colors and cream. Not to Dean's taste, but at least the kid was expressing himself.

“Dragons don't exist anymore, Jack.” Sam, true to his roots as Team Hippie, had some kind of tea with more syllables than ingredients and was rifling through a selection of organic sugars left on the table.

“I don't think it's really a dragon,” Cas said, resting a hand briefly on Jack's forearm. At least the angel was drinking straight black coffee, so one of Dean's friends had good taste. “Whatever it is, it's taking virgins and leaving burned corpses behind.”

“Like a dragon!” Jack insisted. He caught the warning glance from Cas and lowered his voice. “Like a dragon.”

“Dragons don't leave these behind,” Cas pulled a singed hex bag out of one pocket and laid it on the table.

Witches. Friggin witches. “So, what, there's a witch catching virgins and what...using them in spells?”

“I'm not aware of any craft that requires virgins,” Cas commented. “Sam?”

“Nothing that I've seen,” Sam replied. He was thumbing through the database on his phone, having already opened the hex bag and sorted out the ingredients. “Did you find a connection to the victims?”

“We've had five victims,” Jack slid a list across the table toward Dean. “They don't all have one connection, but there enough shared that they could be connected together.”

“Three of them on the school volleyball team,” Cas explained. “Four in the same honors class, two go to the same church, but all five have never been at the same event as far as we can see.”

“And you said the hotel is right in the center of things?” Sam asked, looking up from his phone to catch Cas's eye.

“Yes,” the angel confirmed. “None of the bodies were discovered in the same location, but they were each found roughly equidistant from this hotel.”

Dean grunted, running his thumb over the edge of the paper coffee cup. It wasn't even one of the fancy hotels downtown, just a two-story chain deal right off the interstate. “How about the timing?”

“Every three weeks,” Jack said. “Look, Cas and I did some digging and found a list of people who've stayed here every time one of the girls was killed.” He slid another piece of paper toward Dean, this one filled with names and dates. Four of the names were circled with connecting lines drawn to the dates of their deaths. “Of these people, two of them checked in this morning,” Jack added.

“And this is three weeks,” Dean nodded. So. Serial-killer witch with a thing for pretty virgins.

Jack tugged at Cas's sleeve, staring over his head. “There's one,” he whispered.

Dean half-turned in his chair, pretending to check out the news scrawl on the TV. “Sweater vest?”

“Howard Fischer,” Jack supplied. “Trainer for a medical supply company. He's here for a few days every three weeks to report to the home office.”

“Who's the other guy?”

“Jeremiah Cage,” Jack pulled a brightly-colored folder out of one pocket. “He works for an entertainment company, I think he travels around doing inspections on night clubs.”

Sam's eyes met Dean's across the table before glancing back to Jack. “He has a club here?”

“Not exactly,” Cas tapped part of the folder. “It's the hotel bar.”

“There he is!” Jack stood up, his chair falling back, and pointed across the room toward the reception desk.

Sam grabbed at the kid's arm to pull it down, but the damage was already done. Dean turned in his chair and made eye contact with Jeremiah Cage as he looked at their table to assess the commotion. Dean could spot the moment they were made as hunters as Cage's mouth twisted in a sneer and he tugged something out of his pocket to toss over his shoulder at the receptionist.

“No!” Dean lunged out of his chair, knocking it over in the process, but it was too late. The receptionist screamed as her body was wreathed in flame, the shockwave of the spell like a bomb detonation. Dean felt himself collide with Jack as they were thrown against the far wall of the lobby. The air was full of dust and smoke and the torturous screams of the burning woman.

“Sam!” Dean coughed into his shoulder, tucking Jack behind him and pushing the kid's head down to keep it out of the smoke. “Cas!”

“Here!” Sam pushed a fallen table aside. “I think Cas was headed toward reception.”

As if on cue, the woman's screams faded away. Either Cas had gotten to her in time, or...well, Dean shook himself. “Jack, think you can make it to the exit?”

The kid nodded. “What about you?”

“We've gotta get these people out,” Sam explained. “Grab anyone you can on the way, okay, Jack?”

Jack nodded again, pulling the collar of his T-shirt over his nose. Dean watching him pick his way through to an overturned table and give a hand up to the young woman crouched there.

“Dean. Sam.” Cas was standing behind them, his face and clothing clean except for a smudge of soot across his forehead.

“What about...” Sam made a vague gesture but the angel shook his head, his face downcast.

“And Cage?” Dean asked.

“He fled upstairs.”

“All right. You two get out,” Dean checked the magazine in his gun and locked it back into place. “I'm going after him.”

“Dean, you cannot go upstairs in a burning building,” Cas argued, catching Dean's sleeve.

“Don't have a choice.”

“Yes, you do. I'll go. I'm an angel, the smoke won't affect me.”

Dean folded his arms and glared at his best friend. It always came down to this...this angel thing. Of course it wasn't fair to complain, Cas _was_ an angel, and that _did _make him the best choice to follow the mass-murdering witch into the fire.

It's just...Dean hated sending any of his family into danger without him. “If you die, I'll kill you,” he growled, shrugging out of Cas's grip.

It probably said a lot that Cas barely reacted to Dean's nonsensical threats anymore. He was gone in a swirl of tan coat, leaving a bad taste in Dean's mouth as he turned back to help Sam clear out the lobby.

_Cas is an angel. Angels don't burn._

But they did burn, didn't they? And even though this wasn't holy fire or even hell fire, every nerve in Dean was screaming to go after Cas and send him to safety while Dean took on the killer witch.

They found Jack outside the hotel, his little cluster of survivors staring up at the building in horror as flames began crawling up the sides of the building. More were pouring out the hotel's emergency exits, and a woman standing near Jack in the hotel's uniform seemed to be on the phone with emergency services.

“Is that everyone?” Sam asked, raking a hand through his hair to dislodge some dust.

“I think so,” Jack glanced between the brothers. “Where's Cas?”

“He went after the witch,”

“Alone?” Jack started forward, but Sam's hand on his shoulder stopped him.

“He'll be fine,” Sam said. “He's come through worse.”

Jack hesitated, staring up at the burning hotel. “But...what if he isn't?”

That did it. Dean couldn't stand there anymore, and even though it was a monumentally stupid idea he wrapped a bandanna around his face and strode back into the building, easily evading Sam and Jack's attempts to catch him.

He'd intended to stride through the flames, find Cas and the witch locked in deadly combat, fire one shot to kill the witch, and drag Cas out by the collar if need be. Instead he was nearly taken off his feet by the sheer, roaring, _hell_ of the fire. They'd made it out of the lobby just in time, as the flames that had consumed the poor receptionist had spread up and out from her desk to burn the entire hotel.

Dean staggered through the flames, arm up to shield his face from the jumping sparks all around him. He was almost to the stairs and yes, this was possibly the stupidest thing he'd ever done, but the emergency exit for the second floor was just at the other end of the hall so all he had to do was grab Cas and book it.

He thought he could feel his hair and eyebrows singeing, and just as Dean was thinking maybe Sam was right and he should turn back he heard the scream.

Not as awful or chilling as the woman who'd burned to death, but this one cut to his heart just as much. He'd had too many opportunities to hear that scream.

That was Cas.

Dean ducked as a lightbulb overhead exploded, though whether that was from the angel's true voice or the pressure of the fire he didn't know. All he did know was that he had to get upstairs, and now. He ducked around a burning table, rolled under a fallen beam, and was up and running up the stairs before he could even process that they'd begun to burn.

The upstairs was filled with smoke, though thankfully less fire, and Dean fought and coughed his way along the hotel's single corridor for the source of the battle he could still hear. Someone was chanting in Latin, and something large and dark flew past Dean's head to crash into the wall behind him.

It was Cas.

Dean called to his friend, kneeling beside him, and tore the bandanna off his mouth. “Hey, buddy, you okay?”

Cas waved a hand vaguely, coughing for air, and curled over on his side. Dean swallowed back a mouthful of bile. Cas's entire side and back were a mess of burns, melted straight through his clothing and skin to the muscle beneath. “W-witchfire,” Cas gasped. “Didn't...didn't expect it.”

“And I expected hunters, not...whatever you are,” Cage was striding through the smoke, seemingly oblivious to the heat and flames. “Not many people survive my fire. Well done.”

Dean coughed into his shoulder, fumbling blindly for the gun he'd tucked in his waistband. “Guess you're the one who killed those girls.”

“Oh, naughty little things,” Cage folded his hands and _preened_. “I can spot a fake ID from a yard away, you know. Their kind is always sneaking into my clubs, always looking for that special something.”

Cas grunted and heaved himself up, placing his own body between Cage and Dean. “You won't hurt anyone else.”

“And how will you stop me?” Cage smirked and held up one hand. He snapped his fingers and Cas screamed again, the front of his shirt igniting with blue-white fire.

“Cas!” Dean grabbed a clear spot on Cas's coat and tried to pull him back. Witchfire was like a grease fire, if he was remembering his dad's notes. He could smother it if he was quick enough, and Cas should be able to heal from the damage.

“Ooh, I've never seen that before,” Cage said, kneeling in front of Cas and lifting the angel's chin up with two fingers. “Why is he bleeding white?”

Dean grit his teeth. This close, he didn't even have to aim. He pulled his gun free, aiming up through the loose fabric of Cas's coat right at the smug bastard's face. “Go to hell.”

It wasn't loaded with witch bullets, but with a kind of multi-sanctified, kill-almost-anything bullet Sam had been working on. Etched with a devil's trap, coated in silver, blessed with eleven secret herbs and spices, the whole nine yards. Should kill just about any witch up to three steps below Rowena.

Cage wasn't anywhere near that powerful.

It wasn't some instant, karmic death with squiggles of lightning or maybe Cage bursting into flames. The bullet hit him in the throat and he staggered back, clutching at the wound and trying to cauterize enough to save his own life. That probably would have worked, if Dean hadn't stood up and fired three more rounds into his chest.

“Dean,” Cas was pawing at his leg now, practically shaking with pain. “We have to go.”

Dean knelt down and tugged the bandanna back around his neck. “Fire escape isn't too far,” he offered, sliding an arm behind Cas's back on the side that hadn't been burned. “C'mon, buddy, let's get you out of here.”

Cas grunted and rested his fingers on Dean's forehead. Instantly Dean's head cleared and his breathing was easier, even as they were still moving through the smoke. “Hey, save it for yourself!” he protested.

“I will be fine,” Cas said, head lolling a little to rest on Dean's shoulder. His voice was more gravely than usual, as though he'd been affected by the smoke. “Just need a little rest.”

Dean kicked the emergency exit door open, relieved to find that Sam and Jack were hurrying up the stairs from below. “Rescue's almost here, do we need to bail?” Sam asked, reaching up to take Cas from Dean.

“There's a body,” Dean offered, but something in the building behind them exploded, blowing the glass of the windows out. “Never mind.”

“Yeah,” Sam eased Cas down the last of the stairs, and Dean was relieved to see that the angel's wounds already seemed better in the clear light of day.

“Let's get out of here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this was the longest one yet!
> 
> Next time: Tear-stained (Family)


	14. Tear-stained (Family)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been waiting for this one.

Heavy boot steps sounded on the metal stairs leading down into the war room. Sam glanced up on his way through and smiled at the hunter making his way down. “Hey, Bobby. How was Indiana?”

Bobby stared down at Sam, seemingly dumbstruck. “Sam?”

“Bobby, you okay?”

“Sammy, there you are!” Dean took the book of ancient Babylonian agricultural witchcraft out of his brother's hands. “Apparently Metadouche never watched Smokey and the Bandit, so we're giving Cas an education right now.”

“Dean?”

Dean glanced up at the old hunter. “Bobby? What's wrong?”

“He's just been staring at me,” Sam explained. “I'm not sure what's going on.”

Sam startled a little when he realized there were tears rolling down Bobby's face. “C'mon, Dean. Bobby, what is it?” he climbed the handful of steps left to gently take the older hunter by one arm.

Bobby twisted his arm around and clamped down on Sam's forearm. “Is it really you, boy?”

Dean had come up to stand just behind Sam and the brothers exchanged a look. “Who else would it be?” Dean asked.

“Dean, this movie seems inappropriate,” Cas announced, trailing into the room with his phone in his hands. “I do not believe Sheriff Mills would approve of the way law enforcement is presented.”

“Never mind that, Cas, something's wrong with Bobby.”

Cas glanced up, blue eyes fixed on Bobby's tear-stained face. Something in his expression changed, and slipped past the brothers to wrap the older hunter in an embrace. “Bobby.”

The older hunter gave a tight laugh and returned the hug, hands twisting in the back of Cas's trench coat. “Damn, it's good to see you again, Feathers.”

Sam took a step backward down the stairs and Dean grabbed his brother by the shoulder, though whether to steady him or out of shock it wasn't clear. “Cas, do you mean...” Sam hesitated. It couldn't be real, could it? “Is this our Bobby?”

Cas released Bobby and stepped back, angling himself so he could see all three of them. “In a way,” he explained. “The body is the Bobby from the apocalypse world, but the soul is the Bobby from this one.”

No matter what Dean said, Sam did not burst into tears as he pulled Bobby into a hug. The body was still that little bit wrong that he'd always seen around the apocalypse world Bobby—weight and muscle in slightly different places, different scars—but the way Bobby's breath caught as he rested his forehead in Sam's shoulder, that was the Bobby he remembered.

“I don't understand,” he finally said, stepping back to let Dean embrace their old friend. “How are you back?”

“It was a reaper,” Bobby explained, following them down the stairs to sit around the map table in the war room. “Near as I can figure, the other me was running down one that had gone crazy, but another reaper caught up to him before he could finish the job. That reaper offered him any one thing in its power if the other me just let the crazy reaper go to face Death's judgment.”

Cas leaned forward, hands loose on the table as though cradling a mug of coffee. “A reaper might have the power to exchange souls.”

Bobby shook his head. “I never got to see the other me, but the reaper told me he just wanted peace. Seems he'd lost too much but was too stubborn to take himself out.”

“What about you?” Sam glanced at his brother. “Are you okay with being back?”

The older hunter dropped his head and shook it. When he finally spoke his voice broke, tears swimming in his eyes. “I never wanted to leave you boys.”

Sam's throat closed and across the table Dean rested a hand on Bobby's shoulder. “We'll take you as long as we can get you, old man,” Dean whispered. “Welcome home, Bobby.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just miss original Bobby so much! *sob*
> 
> Sorry for the short chapter, I had a follow up vet appointment tonight (infection is down but liver is still bad...poor kitty)
> 
> Next Time: Scars (Livin' on a Prayer)


	15. Scars (Livin' on a Prayer)

“All right, I'm hittin' the sack,” Dean patted Castiel on the shoulder as he stood. “Need anything?”

“Get some rest, Dean. I'll be fine.” It was a kind offer, but Castiel had found a new box of magazines in one of the storage rooms—this one a home companion guide from the 1940s with articles about life on the homefront during World War 2—and that was more than enough to keep him occupied until the hunters awoke in a few hours.

But first...

Castiel slipped past the Winchesters' doors to the large bathroom at the end of their dormitory hall. The bright lights and wide bank of mirrors were very useful, even though his true form didn't really exist on this plane.

He hadn't wanted to see the scars at first, of course. All angels knew that a wound from an angel blade never truly healed. There was no phantom pain or discomfort, but the physical marks could be distressing.

The marks from Efram and Jonah's torture. Naomi's cruelty. Rachel's betrayal. Any angel that looked upon him could see that his own kind had taken up blades against him. But now...something was wrong.

Castiel slipped out of his coat, jacket, and shirt and carefully studied his bare torso in the bright light of the bathroom. Three lines cut across his ribs, mementos from a battle with a demon weeks ago. Wounds that should not have left scars behind.

There were more. A mark across his forearm from blocking a blade, a round scar from a bullet that should never have wounded him in the first place, even one across the palm of his hand where he'd sliced it to draw a banishing symbol. All since the Empty had sent him back, had woven him into this amalgamation of grave and flesh. His true form held the same scars as before, but now his flesh was gathering its own collection.

“Holy...Cas?”

Too late, Castiel noticed Dean in the mirror behind him. He grabbed up his shirt and slipped it on, trying to brush past the hunter as he did up the buttons.

“No, no you don't,” Dean stepped in his path, turning him around to march him back to the mirrors. “Wanna tell me what all this is?”

Castiel sighed. He could so easily get past Dean, manhandle the hunter out of the way, drive out into the night and not return until something else had caught the human's attention. “I don't seem to be healing very well.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Dean slowly circled Castiel, his fingers tracing an ugly scar that ran across his clavicle. “Wanna tell me why?”

The angel looked down, focusing on his hands as they worked a button through a buttonhole. “This body is different, Dean.”

“Yeah?” Dean had leaned back against a sink, arms folded across his chest. “I mean, we know Jimmy isn't in there.”

“It's more than that,” Castiel replied. He rested his hands on the sink in front of him and studied his face in the mirror. “I thought it was because Heaven has so little power to spare, but the wounds themselves are still healing. They just leave marks behind.”

Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You had scars when you were falling, Cas,” he offered.

Oh, he had. They had never talked about the painful welts left by the sigil he'd cut into his flesh but he knew Dean had seen them. “It's possible the loss of Heaven's power is causing the same effect.”

Silence fell over the bathroom. Castiel turned to slip into his jacket, glancing back in the mirror to adjust his tie the way Sam had taught him.

“So...are you going back?”

Castiel glanced over at Dean, a little surprised that the hunter had even asked. “Why would you ask that?”

Dean gave a shrug and moved away from the row of sinks, taking a few steps before seeming to notice he was in a bathroom and there was nothing to distract himself with. “Maybe mortal life isn't what's best for you, Cas. Maybe you need to, you know, be back in the clouds.”

“Dean,” Castiel felt a fond smile tugging at his mouth. “I'm not becoming mortal again.”

“You know what I mean.”

“Dean” he gently took the hunter's arm and turned him so they were face to face. “This is where I have chosen to be.”

There would be time for Heaven later. Later, when the scorn of his own kind could not be contrasted with the love of his chosen family.

Dean, predictably, shook himself free and tried to play his morose mood off. “Well, I can't sleep now. Come on, we can finish our Eastwood marathon.”

Castiel groaned and retrieved his coat. “How do you have more cowboy movies?”

“What are you talking about? You love cowboy movies!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> FYI Dean respects Roy Rogers but thinks the whole musical cowboy thing is kinda corny. Just in case you wondered how far his love of cowboys went.
> 
> Next time: Pinned Down (Archimedes)
> 
> (If none of you are singing Bon Jovi by now I'm disappointed. Because whoa-o, we're halfway there!)


	16. Pinned Down (Archimedes)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has reviewed, left kudos, or bookmarked this story so far! Its such an encouragement and really helps me stay on track!

“_Sam? Sam!”_

Sam slowly blinked open his eyes, his head ringing from the pain that usually meant a recent blow to the head. Above him hung Jack's face, upside-down from his point of view, worry creasing the young man's features.

“Hey, Jack,” Sam tried to pat Jack reassuringly but ended up kind of flailing his hand against the kid's face. “What, uh, what happened?”

“The tunnel collapsed,” Jack sat back out of view, but a hand on Sam's shoulder kept contact between the two. “I think I'm okay, but you're stuck.”

Sam tried to raise his head to look down his body but the strain was too much and he let it fall back. “How bad?”

“It's a support beam. I cleared most of the rubble off of it but it's too heavy for me to lift.”

The older hunter nodded, wincing as the motion jarred his head. Sam slowly tried to move parts of his body to get an idea of what was stuck, and figured that the beam lying from his right hip to just below his ribcage on the left side was really the only thing holding him down. “Did you get a hold of Dean?”

“I sent him a text. I could only get a little bit of signal at the top of the pile, but I think it went through.”

Sam relaxed as best as he could under the heavy beam on the stone floor. “And you're sure you're okay?”

Jack sighed, and Sam had to bite back a grin. The kid was sounding more like Dean every day. “My hands and knees are a little scraped,” Jack confessed. “And I banged by shoulder, but nothing bad.”

“Good...that's good.”

The two were silent for a moment, Sam running through the plans they'd made earlier. It had seemed funny when he'd won the rock-paper-scissors game and got to explore the old tunnels under the city while Dean was stuck pulling blueprints at the library, but maybe it hadn't been such a good switch after all.

“Hey, Jack?” Sam tried to shift, a sharp rock poking into his back. “Can you see any signs for the cross streets above?”

“Uh...” Jack's footsteps trailed away, the light of the flashlight leaving with him so that Sam only had the faint maintenance lights of the tunnel. “Maybe Edwards?”

Edwards...Sam nodded again. They were maybe half a mile from the library, and there'd be tunnel access three blocks away at the historical society. If Dean had gotten the message, he would be here in half an hour.

Provided he didn't come up on the wrong side of the collapse. Sam tried to shift again, the tunnel floor growing clammy under his back and sticking his shirt to his skin.

“Sam?” Jack was staring down at him, worry all over his face. The younger man knelt down and touched the rock beside Sam's head, bringing his hands away to rub his fingers together. “It's wet.”

Something clenched in Sam's stomach. If the collapse had damaged the water mains, any shift in the rubble could flood the tunnels.

“Jack, listen to me,” Sam reached up to grab Jack by the arm, forcing him to make eye contact. “Follow this tunnel back until you see a ladder to get out. Tell them the water mains are damaged.”

“No, I'm not leaving you!”

“We don't have a choice.”

Jack pulled away from Sam and kicked at the fallen beam. “If I had my powers I could just lift this out of the way.”

Sam's calves were noticeably wet now, water trickling up his body. “There's no time to argue.”

The younger man ignored him, shoving at the beam in frustration. “It just needs a couple inches,” he complained. “Why are humans so weak?”

The water was soaking into his waistband now. Sam frantically stared around, spotting a chunk of mason a little bigger than a soccer ball. “Jack, you see that rock?”

Jack glanced over and back. “Yes?”

“Push it over here, up against the beam.”

Face still unsure, Jack shoved the piece of stonework closer to the beam. “What are you doing?”

“Just look around,” Sam tried to push himself up a little, water trickling up his shirt to his neck. “Do you see any rebar? Or maybe a pipe or something?”

“Here,” Jack dragged a piece of rebar up. “I used it to dig some of the rubble away.”

“Perfect. Wedge it between the beam and the rock, you should be able to use it as a lever.”

Jack's brow furrowed, but he tried to follow Sam's instructions. With a bit of coaching, Jack was able to get the end of the rebar under the beam and use the piece of masonry to lever the beam pinning Sam up just enough for the older hunter to slip free.

Sam pulled himself loose with a sigh of relief, not even taking the time to catalog his aches and pains as he grabbed Jack by the arm and ran down the tunnel, ignoring the burn of pain in his hip with every step he took. They reached the ladder that lead up to the historic society just as Sam heard the beam Jack had levered up collapse and the rush of water as one of the main pipes burst.

They didn't even have time to climb. Sam shoved Jack against the ladder and wrapped himself around the kid, locking his own arms around the ladder. The water tugged at their calves and knees and up to their hips, debris colliding with Sam's legs and nearly tearing him away from the ladder.

“Climb, Jack,” he yelled over the roar of the water. Jack twisted around to get his hands and feet on the ladder and Sam relaxed his hold just enough for the kid to start climbing.

Favoring his right leg, Sam started up the ladder after Jack, staying just far enough back to keep the younger man's feet out of his face. He heard Jack''s excited voice explaining something to someone at the top of the ladder, and glanced down at the swirling waters for a moment to watch the detritus from the tunnel swirl away.

“Sam?”

He looked up. Dean was looming in the opening for the ladder, one hand extended to help his brother up and back onto solid land. Sam took it thankfully, letting Dean take some of his weight to pull him to safety. “What took you so long?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Give me a lever long enough and a fulcrum on which to place it, and I shall move the world” -Archimedes
> 
> Next time: "Stay with me" (Mother)


	17. "Stay With Me" (Mother)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is version 17 of this prompt and I still kind of hate it. But! At least it's written!

“_Jack? No, no, no, don't do this, kid. Jack, stay with me!” Dean's hands framed Jack's face, the older hunter leaning over him. “Sammy, he's going back under!”_

“_I'm trying!” Sam's voice called back, somewhere beyond Jack's vision. “Dammit, where is Cas?”_

“Jack?”

Jack shook his head, blinking to focus his vision.

“Sweetie, you okay?”

He was sitting at a small round table in a tidy kitchen...across from his mother. “Mom?”

Kelly smiled, standing up smoothing from her chair and leaning over to collect his plate. “Guess you were hungry,” she commented. “Did you get your report for Mr Singer finished?”

“Um...” Jack glanced down at the clean, white tablecloth. “I...think so?”

“You think so?” Kelly laughed and settled back down in her seat with a cup of coffee. “Eastern Mythology is one of your favorite classes, shouldn't you remember?”

Jack nodded and pushed himself back from the table. “I should...go check it out,” he suggested.

Kelly smiled and stood up to kiss his cheek. “Just let me or Cas know if you need a ride to school today.”

“Cas? Cas is here?”

His mother laughed. “Your step-father is always here.”

“_Hey, hey, there he is. Jack, come on, buddy, you can fight this,” Dean was pressing a cold cloth to Jack's forehead and the back of his neck, and a sharp, bitter scent filled the air. _

“_He says he's about ten minutes out,” Sam's face replaced Dean's in Jack's field of vision. “Why isn't the cure working?”_

“_Maybe Michael souped up some Djinn?”_

A knock on Jack's door pulled him out of his review of his Easter Mythologies paper. “Jack? Kelly said you might need help with your homework?”

“Cas!” Jack jumped out of his chair and threw his arms around his surrogate father. “It's so good to see you, I don't know what's going on.”

“Whoa, calm down, kiddo,” Cas pushed him back a little, a grin crinkling the corners of his eyes. “Bobby said you were acing the class, what's wrong?”

“What's...” Jack took a closer look at his father...his step-father. Cas was wearing jeans and an old sweater with the sleeves rolled up—far more casual than Jack had ever seen the angel.

So this was part of this spell or dream or whatever, too.

“Nothing. I guess I just had a bad dream,” Jack sat back down, frustrated. He should have been happy, he thought. Everything around him seemed to prove this life was perfect. His mother was still alive, he was going to college with friends his own age, there were no angels or demons or Lucifer or anything.

But it couldn't possibly be real.

“So?” Cas leaned over his shoulder to look at his papers. “What's the problem?”

Jack sighed and shoved the papers back into the folder he'd pulled them out of. “Nothing, I guess.”

“_The Djinn cure isn't working,” Sam was saying. “Sometimes it seems like he almost comes out of it, but then he's gone again.”_

“_Have you caught the Djinn?” That was Cas. Real-Cas, the Dream-Cas just couldn't copy the angel's syntax._

“_Yeah, it's dead,” Dean let out a sigh. “Any ideas?”_

“You coming out to the pier tonight?” Maggie asked. Her backpack, as usual, was overloaded with books for all of her elective courses.

“No, I don't think so,” Jack shrugged. “I think I'd rather be home.”

“Hey!” Dream-Dean had appeared, dropping his hand onto Jack's head. “That's right, we've got a game this weekend.”

This was one of the more unbelievable parts of this dream...vision...spell...thing. Dean was the junior varsity basketball coach. Sam was dean of the liberal arts program. It was like this world was just taking the people he knew and slotting them into different roles.

“We wouldn't break him, Mr Winchester,” Maggie joked.

“You'd better not,” Dream-Dean pretended to look fierce, then gave Jack a good-natured shove. “Get on to class, you two.”

“_Nothing else is working, Dean.”_

“_It's too dangerous,” Dean shook his head, kneeling again over Jack with the cold compress. “What if you get stuck in there with him, Cas?”_

“_That won't happen,” Cas gently nudged Dean aside to peer into Jack's eyes. “He still has enough control that I can pull him out of it.”_

“_Are you sure about this?” Sam asked._

Jack let the front door swing shut behind him, dropping his backpack to the floor next to the door. “Mom?”

“Sweetie,” Kelly entered the small front room from the kitchen. “What's wrong?”

He just sank down into a chair with a sigh. Everything was wrong. No matter what he answered in class the professors acted like he was correct, he'd turned in homework to the wrong classes on purpose and still gotten it back with perfect grades, and he'd even been late to a class on purpose only to have the teacher decide attendance wasn't important today.

Life was too perfect, and that was bothering him.

“Would you like some pie? Your uncles are coming over for dinner, but I'm sure they wouldn't mind if you had a slice.”

“Jack!”

Jack's head whipped up. It was Cas. Real-Cas, suit and trench coat and everything. “You're here!” Jack shouted, jumping up to throw his arms around the angel.

Cas's hug was tight with relief. “I had to enter your dream to reach you,” he explained. “You were captured by a Djinn, but Sam and Dean haven't been able to pull you out.”

“Excuse me?” Kelly had both hands on her hips. “Cas, you're supposed to be in St Louis for your new book.”

Castiel glanced over at the simulacrum of Jack's mother. “I'm sorry, Jack, but she's...”

“Not real,” Jack sighed. “I know. I just couldn't figure out how to get out of here.”

The angel hesitated. “There is one sure way.”

“No!” Kelly threw herself in between them, arms spread as though to shield Jack from Cas. “I won't let you. He's finally happy, finally has the family he deserves!”

“But this isn't real,” Cas argued. “None of this...not even you.”

“I don't care,” Kelly shook her head. “If I'm here that means part of Jack wants this, right?”

Jack tried to pull her away, but his mother stood firm. “Mom, please.”

“Aren't you happy, Jack?” she turned grieved eyes toward him. “Don't you want to stay with me?”

His stomach clenched. He would have been happy to have this life, or a thousand others, here with his mother but it just wasn't real. “I'm sorry.”

Tears trailed down Kelly's face. “But we're family.”

There was an angel blade in Jack's hand. He wasn't sure if Cas had slipped it to him or if he'd been able to summon it in the Djinn dream. “I'm sorry, Mom, but I have another family, too.”

. . .

Jack sat up with a gasp, sucking in air and choking on it.

“There he is! Calm down, kid, just breathe,” Dean was rubbing his back, the older hunter's face a mask of relief.

“Jack?” Sam knelt beside him, scattering gravel on the warehouse floor. “How are you feeling?”

Jack twisted around, and Cas was behind him. The angel had that small, gentle smile on his face that was so familiar to Jack. “C-Cas?”

“Hey,” Sam wrapped an arm around Jack's shoulders and hugged him close. “It's okay, Jack. Whatever happened in there, it'll be okay.”

He realized he was crying and shoved the tears way with the heel of his hand. “Just glad to be back.” He wasn't ready to share about his life with his mother in the Djinn dream.

Dean patted his knee and stood up, complaining about how far they had to walk to get back to the car. Cas rested a hand on his back, healing what few aches Jack had begun to notice, before trailing off after Dean. Sam hugged him a little tighter before standing up and helping Jack to his feet.

Jack paused to look at the trap the Djinn had held him in. Part of him did wish he could be back in that dream world with his mother.

But the real Kelly Kline was waiting for him in heaven. Until then, his family need him here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Muffled Scream (Sarcophagus)


	18. Muffled Scream (Sarcophagus)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ugh, I had to do adult things today. Like wash the dishes and pay bills.

“Friggin witches,” Dean grumbled, double-checking the clip in his gun before slipping it into the back of his belt.

Sam gave a huff, though whether it was one of exasperation or agreement no one could really tell.

The Sadlersville Museum of Natural History was sketchy enough, with its counterfeit antiquities and stolen artifacts, but now someone was harvesting the displays for ingredients for some very nasty spells. One of Bobby's old hunter contacts had long suspected the museum was just a front for black market spell ingredients and recent activity in the area seemed to prove that.

“All right,” Sam clicked on his flashlight to check the museum directory. “Why don't you check the ancient treasures and I'll look at that exhibit of local plant life?”

“Hey,” Dean held his fist up.

Sam just bitch-faced at him for a minute. “Do you really want to compare...let's see...thirty-two nearly identical species of ferns against this list Rowena sent me?”

Dean let his fist hand in the air until Sam turned away, shaking his head in disgust. “Fine. Bitch.” His own flashlight out, he easily found the red footprints that lead to the ancient treasures exhibits.

That was one thing kind of cool about this museum. The different halls and services were color-coded, and a trail of different-shaped footprints on the floor lead to each sections. Exhibits had changed around throughout the museum's life, however, so even though Dean was looking for a bunch of stuff from ancient Egypt and Greece he was following the prints of a cowboy boot with spurs.

And, of course, the “Treasures of the Ancient World” sign couldn't quite cover up the “America's Wild Frontier” painted across the archway to the exhibit hall. Inside the hall, cheap paneling on the walls showed scenes of the ancient world, and a row of glass cases along each wall and down the middle held artifacts and information cards. At the end of the hall opposite the door stood an Egyptian sarcophagus, with a large display of mummification tools and information.

Dean shuddered. Mummies were one thing, but he'd never understand what was so fascinating about having your brain pulled out your nose. He checked over the first display on his right—short, hooked knives and pictures of reed baskets and weaving techniques. Nothing that screamed secret witchy ingredient.

The other cases were largely the same. If he'd wanted to learn about cuneiform, hieroglyphics, the Parthenon, trading routes to and from Rome, or the “real story” of the Spartans he could have picked it all up (though in no obvious order and probably mostly made up to make it sound more interesting). Nothing seemed disturbed, until he found the case for ancient herbal medicine.

A circle of the glass was just gone, and when Dean carefully touched the open edge the glass felt smooth, almost melted. The board inside the display still listed all the plants, but none were present. He frowned and turned away, trying to remember if there were any other displays about medicine in the other exhibits Sam had listed.

A hard blow to his temple knocked Dean sideways. It was enough to make his head ring, though not to knock him out, and he had enough sense left to dodge the next blow.

“Who disturbs us?”

It was a gray-haired, gnarled looking old woman, wielding a heavy pottery jar with a stylized Jackal head on the top. Her voice was a reedy hiss, barely audible above the clanking of the museum's old heating system.

“Son of a bitch!” Dean felt the side of his head, fingers coming away bloody. “What the hell, lady?”

“You are stealing our birthright!”

“Hey, I ain't stealing nothing,” Dean felt something crunch under his boot as he stepped back, and glanced down to find some old, dried-up plants. “What is this stuff?”

The old woman hissed—actually friggin hissed—and launched herself at Dean, canopic jar held high. He batted the jar away with his forearm and caught the crazy witch's wrists before she could sink her claws in his face. “Sam!”

“He doesn't know,” the old woman snarled. “But we will know.”

“Yeah, great,” Dean grunted. He spun her around, trying to pin her against one of the unopened displays. “Damn, you're wiry.”

The old witch was hissing and twisting, and managed to pop free long enough to clamp one hand on Dean's face. She gave a horrible squawk of laughter. “Oh, we see. This one will sleep with our ancestors.”

“Get off me!” Dean twisted her wrist away, but the witch lunged forward and bit him on the shoulder. Dean yelped, shoving her back. “All right, fine,” he said, trying to yank his gun free. Sam had wanted to take the witch alive, to make her reverse some of the spells she'd cast, but it wasn't worth getting _bitten_. No telling when she'd last brushed her teeth, either.

The witch just cackled and waved her hands in the air, muttering a long string of syllables. Dean felt himself lifted off his feet, flying backwards. The world distorted around him for a moment, and for a split second he could have sworn he was staring through a pane of glass before a heavy stone lid slammed over him, sealing him into darkness.

. . .

Sam had three or four dried specimens laid out, comparing them to the sketches Rowena had provided, when he thought he heard his brother yell. He paused, listening, and definitely heard the faint sounds of a fight of some kind. He swore and left the plants on the table, keeping close to the wall to sneak toward the exhibit hall Dean had been searching.

There was a flash of light, the sound of stone grinding on stone, and the museum fell silent around him. Sam froze, clicking off his flashlight and huddling against the wall. There was some faint light from the streetlights outside the museum, just enough for him to pick his way around the open central rotunda to the ancient treasures exhibits.

Someone was chanting now. Sam didn't recognize the language, but the voice itself was reedy and uneven. It didn't sound like a spell, more like a song or nursery rhyme.

He eased himself through the archway to the exhibit hall and kept to the wall. He could dimly see a slight, hunched figure picking through debris on the floor, but there was no sign of Dean. In the darkness the glass displays were indistinguishable, except for the large one at the end that held the sarcophagus (almost definitely a fake, one carved out of limestone for one of the local tycoon families back when Sadlersville was a thriving mining town).

Then he heard the screaming. It was distant, muffled, as though from another room or beneath the floor. The old woman threw her head back and cackled when she heard it, turning to face the back of the room and hurl insults at the display with the sarcophagus.

Sam's stomach dropped. Dean wasn't anywhere to be seen...but someone was in that sarcophagus. Even after all this time, he knew his big brother still had nightmares about being trapped in that coffin the day he was pulled out of Hell.

“Hey!” Sam didn't even give the witch time to respond, striding forward and emptying four rounds into her screeching body. She flew back into a display of ancient arrowheads and crashed through the glass, wheezing out her last breath among chiseled flint and shaped bronze (that were most definitely fake, if the half-inch piece of fiberglass arrow shaft still sticking out of the end of one was anything to go by).

The sarcophagus loomed at the end of the hallway like a silent sentinel, stone face impassive behind the wall of wavy glass. But as he got closer, Sam could hear his brother's desperate shouts.

Sam pulled off his jacket and wrapped it around one arm, using his free hand to break through the glass with the handle of his flashlight. With the hand protected by the jacket, he broke the glass away to get to the heavy lid of the sarcophagus. “Dean! I'm here!”

There was another yell, one that could have been his name, and Sam could heard Dean pounding on the inside of the sarcophagus. “Just hold on, I'm gonna get you out,” he shouted, kicking the rest of the glass case out and shoving it clear. The sarcophagus was tilted back slightly on a wooden stand to keep the lid closed, the lid secured with thin steel cables. Sam swore and ducked behind the stand, shoving more glass out of the way.

The cables were secured with simple clasps in the back, not locks, and Sam snapped them free with a sigh of relief. He braced himself against the lid of the sarcophagus and pushed, fingers slipping away from the edge even as he tried to brace it. “Dean!” Sam gently slapped an open hand on the lid of the coffin, concerned anything else might overwhelm his brother. “Can you push from the inside? I've got it loose but I can't get a grip on it.”

He heard Dean pound against the lid and redoubled his efforts to push it free. It shuddered, creaked, then the stone lifted enough for Sam to wedge his fingers under it. “I've got it, come on, push!” he shouted. With the sound of grinding stone, the lid finally slid away from the coffin. Sam let it fall, not caring if the damn thing broke, and caught his brother by the forearms to pull Dean free.

Sam was careful to back away from the glass, tugging Dean with him. His big brother was wild-eyed and shaking, and Sam cringed when he noticed the broken, bloody nails where Dean had been scratching at the inside of the sarcophagus.

“Hey, come on,” Sam tugged his brother closer, wrapping his arms around Dean. “I've got you, Dean. It's okay.”

Dean gave a shudder and burrowed into the embrace, his bloody fingers twisting in the back of Sam's shirt. “Friggin witches, Sammy,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from shouting. “I hate 'em.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Take a shot every time you see the word Sarcophagus! Then report to the hospital for alcohol poisoning!
> 
> Next time: Asphyxiation (Sound of Silence)
> 
> PS: I've had an idea in my head for a Supernatural Fallout AU, is that anything anyone would be interested in? Probably couldn't even start until November, but I've been having fun with some ideas.


	19. Asphyxiation (Sound of Silence)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, it's technically drowning and not asphyxiation, but it was just such a wonderful idea...

“This is the stupidest thing I've ever done.”

Sam rolled his eyes. Dean had said that maybe every ten minutes since they'd left the organic produce section at the grocery store. “Well, do you have any other suggestions?”

Dean looked away, still shaking his head and muttering. Armed with half a dozen organic cucumbers and iron knives dipped in sesame oil they approached the edge of the swamp

“Couldn't have been a mermaid.”

“Dean!”

“I'm just saying, some tourist has to drag some fugly thing into the bayou to start drowning people they could have picked something prettier than a _turtle_.”

“Kappas aren't just turtles, Dean,” Sam explained, hefting his bag further up his shoulder to free his hands. “They're important figures in Japanese mythology.”

“Save it,” Dean held his hand up. “There's Cas.”

Cas had stayed behind to walk the edge of this section of the swamp, looking for any evidence of the Kappa's dwelling. He nodded in greeting and turned back to look over the murky stillness of the water as the brothers came up beside him.

“Find anything?” Sam asked.

Cas hesitated. “Something isn't right,” he admitted. “I keep finding these,” he held up a small pot, made out of the greenish mud of the swamp bank. It was like a tiny urn with a lid, and an intricate design was pressed into the mud.

“What is it?” Sam took the pot out of Cas's hand. “Maybe some local artist makes these and leaves them here to dry?”

“I don't think so,” Cas let his hands drop to his sides, angel blade sliding free. “The mud has been baked.”

Sam tapped the little pot with one fingernail, nodding to himself. “Well, we can worry about that later. Ready, Dean?”

The older Winchester pulled a face and dropped the bags he was carrying. “I can't believe I'm doing this.”

“Kappas love cucumbers,” Sam reminded him, tugging a few free from the grocery bag to stuff in his jacket pockets. “And they're weak to...”

“Iron, sesame, and ginger,” Dean completed with an eye roll. “Which is why we've coated our knives in the colonel's secret blend of herbs and spices.” He glanced at Cas, who was clearly about to ask who the colonel was, and shook his head. There would be time to introduce the angel to fried chicken later...okay, fried chicken molecules.

Sam walked right up to the swamp's edge and started shaving pieces of one of his cucumbers into the water. According to the folklore they'd found, the Kappa would be attracted by the scent of cucumber, but the fact that the pieces had been cut by iron dipped in sesame oil would hurt it enough for the hunters to move in.

“Oh Kappa, my Kappa!” Dean shouted. “Where are you, you little turtle-faced bastard?”

The younger Winchester shook his head. Aside from his brother's shouting, the night was peaceful around them. Just the moon reflecting on the surface of the water, and a single duck quacking in the nearby reeds. He blinked, leaning closer to the plants in confusion. He hadn't known rosemary grew this far out in the swamp.

“Sam!”

He glanced back at Cas's shout. The angel had stayed at their starting point on the bank, as he would be fast enough to reach whichever brother encountered the creature. The angel was pointing out over the surface of the water, and Sam followed the gesture in time to see a ball of light bob to the surface of the water. “Swamp lights?” he asked.

“Will-o'-the-wisps,” Cas replied. “Sam, get away from the water!”

Sam glanced down, in time to come face-to-face with something with big, green eyes and a long, slimy beard before webbed hands wrapped around his legs and tugged him into the water.

. . .

Castiel plunged fearlessly into the swamp, wading through hip-deep water to where his friend was frantically slashing at the long arms that held him. “Sam!”

“What is it?” Sam fought as one long arm, longer than any human's, wrapped around his torso and a fat, webbed hand flailed at his mouth.

The angel surged forward, angel blade in hand, striking for the spot where the neck and shoulder met. The blade skidded along the thing's tough skin and tangled in its hair. The thing threw its head back and _screamed_. It was something primal and horrible, and for one moment Sam stopped struggling to clap his hands over his ears.

That was all the opening it needed. Webbed hands closed around Sam's neck, despite Castiel trying to fend them off with his blade. Something thick and slimy wrapped around Castiel's waist, and he was hoisted into the air by what seemed to be the creature's tail.

“Cas!” Dean was too far away to reach them, but he held his knife up. Castiel understood and stabbed frantically at the tail holding him, finally freeing himself to splash down in the swamp water.

The thing was retreating into the swamp. Its scaly hands around Sam's neck, it had pulled the younger Winchester's head under the water and the hunter's struggle was growing weaker.

Dean threw the knife. Castiel intercepted it before it could be lost in the swamp and dove after the creature.

Beneath the surface everything was quiet, muted, and pitch-dark. Castiel extended his sense, the subtle wrongness he'd detected in the pond just a few meters ahead. It was something dark and twisted, with the unmistakable stench of the fey about it. He propelled himself forward, finally catching sight of the creature's back as it swam to the bottom of the swamp.

Castiel struck. He could only catch the tip of its tail at first, but the iron bit into the fairy creature. It gave another scream, its voice breaking into countless bubbles, and turned about in the water to barrel toward Castiel. Sam was still clutched to its chest, and only the faint movement of Sam's hands against the creature's grasp showed that Castiel's friend was still alive.

The thing dropped Sam, the hunter listlessly slipping away into the murky waters, and drove itself at Castiel with its webbed hands held wide.

. . .

Dean paced the edge of the swamp, flashlight playing over the silent depths. There hadn't been a sound since Cas dived under, just the oppressive silence of the swamp around him. Then the center of the swamp erupted with a cascade of bubbles, the water thrashing and foaming and releasing a horrible smell. Dean had thrown off his jacket and waded into the water—creepy fog-faces be damned, he was going after his brothers—when Cas's head broke the surface.

The angel was covered in algae and a dark fluid, but Dean's attention was immediately drawn to the still form of his brother floating next to the angel as Cas slowly began swimming toward Dean.

“Sam!” Dean plunged through, slipping one arm around Sam's chest to tow him to shore. Cas had gotten them close, but now Dean could see that the angel was sporting some nasty-looking cuts across his chest and arms.

He tugged Sam up on to the shore, pressing his ear to his brother's chest. Dean swore, rolling Sam onto his back to being CPR.

“Dean,” Cas restrained the hunter with one hand and placed the other on Sam's chest. After a moment Sam's eyes fluttered open and he tried to sit up, coughing and choking up brackish water.

“Whoa, easy,” Dean gently rolled his brother onto his side. “It's all right, Sammy, just get it all out.”

“He'll be all right,” Cas said, trying to sound reassuring but really only sounding tired.

“What was that thing?” Dean asked, leaving his brother just long enough to grab his jacket to drape over Sam's drenched form.

“Bolotnik, but I've never seen one out of Russia,” Cas replied. He leaned back on his hands, eyes closed, the filth from the swamp fading away as his grace replenished his earthly form. “Still, it is a fairy creature, and your assumption that iron would kill it was correct.”

Dean grunted and leaned back over Sam, rubbing his brother's back as the younger Winchester coughed up another mouthful of swamp water. “Yeah, well, I think I would have preferred the Kappa.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "So, how was your Saturday, Freckles?"
> 
> "Oh, you know, same old same old. Visited my parents. Played with my cats. Broke my toe."
> 
> It's actually probably sprained, not broken, but I thought it was broken for a while there.
> 
> Next time: Trembling (Exhaustion)
> 
> (PS: this is the Wikipedia article for the monster I used https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bolotnik)


	20. Trembling (Exhaustion)

The ceramic mug shattered on the tile of the bunker's kitchen. Sam grimaced and reached for another mug, setting this one down on the counter before lifting the carafe of coffee. His mind was tight with worry and exhaustion, fatigue sending sharp bursts of pain from his eyes into his sinuses.

“Sam!” He glanced up, blinking in alarm as Cas pulled the mug and carafe out of his hands. Only then did he realize he'd lost focus and the hot coffee had started pouring over the edge of the mug.

“Thanks, Cas,” he whispered, resting one hand on the angel's shoulder and turning to lean back against the counter. “How's Dean?”

Cas set the mug in the sink and the carafe back on the coffeemaker. “He's resting comfortably.”

Sam dragged his hands over his face, barely noticing their trembling. “I can't do this again, Cas.”

“You won't,” Cas hesitated but awkwardly rested one hand on Sam's back. “He is healing, Sam. I promise.”

“But why is it taking so long!” Sam turned to snarl at the angel, but the fight went out of him when he met his friend's eyes. Cas would take it, he would stand there and let Sam throw whatever verbal or physical abuse he needed to vent off his worry and frustration. “Sorry, Cas. I know you're trying.”

“He won't wake before morning,” Cas said. “If you would like to rest I will wake you if there's any change.”

“No,” Sam shook his head and pushed away from the counter, aiming his body vaguely toward the library. “Dean wouldn't sleep if I was the one in a coma. There's something here, I'm sure of it, there must be.”

“Sam,” Cas caught his arm and held him back. For a moment Sam was afraid the angel was about to use his power to send the Winchester to sleep, but the healing sessions with Dean were as draining for Cas as they were for the hunters. “He wouldn't want you to do this.”

“Then what am I supposed to do!” Sam threw his hands up, breaking Cas's hold. His entire body was vibrating, a combination of exhaustion and stress and worry so severe he was nearly seeing double. “I can't find a cure, I can't heal him, I can't even tell him what's going on because _he won't wake up!_”

Cas flinched a little at Sam's raised voice. For a moment it felt good to take his frustration out on someone who could feel it, but that feeling fled with a wave of shame. Cas was exhausting himself, too, pouring his grace into Dean's body to repair the damage the poison was wreaking. He hadn't been able to eradicate the poison itself, as it had some kind of divine source, but Cas had said if he could keep healing the damage done Dean would be able to pull through.

“Sam...”

“No, Cas, I'm sorry,” Sam turned away, raking one hand through his hair. He couldn't face his friend right now...not the forgiveness and understanding he didn't think he deserved. He was taking everything out on the one person who could actually help, and Cas was just letting him.

“Sam,” Cas's voice was insisted, and Sam felt himself turned around and pulled into an embrace. “Dean will wake up,” he whispered. The angel still wasn't the most comfortable with physical interaction, but the contact was enough to make Sam's fragile hold crack. He wrapped his arms around Cas's back and buried his face in the angel's shoulder, tears dropping unheeded into the trench coat.

“I can't watch him die again,” he whispered.

Cas's arms tightened. “He's not dying, Sam. Dean will survive this.”

Sam laughed a little. It was humbling, sometimes, to know how much faith an angel had placed in the Winchester brothers. “Thanks, Cas.”

“Come with me,” Cas released Sam, but took his arm and pulled him toward the dorms. “I'll show you.”

His knees buckled a little, but with one hand on the wall Sam managed to trail after the angel. Everything was shaking, he could feel his body rocking with every breath, but he followed Cas right to his brother's bedside.

Sam all but collapsed on the edge of the bed, staying upright through sheer stubbornness. Cas hurried around to the other side and gently folded back the blanket that had been tucked around Dean's chin.

Sam swallowed, looking away. The wound site was still swollen and angry, dark tendrils of poison leaching through Dean's veins. He couldn't understand what Cas wanted him to see—Dean, barely holding on? Dean, fighting a poison meant for an immortal being?

Dean, dying a slow and agonizing death without a chance to say goodbye?

“Sam,” Cas caught his hand, pulling him back. “Here, see?”

The younger Winchester blinked down at Dean's chest. Cas's hand was resting near Dean's heart, not near the wound in his side. “What is it?”

“His heart is clean.”

Sam frowned and leaned closer, the tightness in his stomach easing a little when he realized Cas was right. The skin on Dean's chest, in the area around his heart and one of his lungs, was clear of the horrible, dark streaks that twisted out from the poisoned wound. “It wasn't like that this morning.”

Cas nodded, his face serious but his eyes bright. “I believe the poison has run its course. We only need to help his body heal. He _will_ recover, Sam.”

It was as though the tension holding Sam together had snapped. He sagged forward, head resting on his brother's shoulder. “Thank you, Cas. Oh, god, thank you.”

He barely even noticed the angel circling around behind him to shuffle Sam's feet up onto the bed until he was lying pressed against his brother. “Just rest, Sam. I will watch over both of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can't believe it's already day twenty! Just eleven to go!
> 
> (then it's, what, 43 days until the start of Fictmas 2019? I have such big plans this year, haha)
> 
> Next time: Laced Drink (Tegretol)


	21. Laced Drink (Tegretol)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for seizures.

That day, there was an unfamiliar face at the desk in front of Gabriel Novak's office.

Dean Smith paused on the way to his own office, taking in the messy dark hair, blue eyes, and slightly ill-fitting suit. Gabe had mentioned getting a part-time assistant, but Dean had always assumed the regional manager would go for one of those leggy blondes like he'd always seen outside Mr. Adler's office.

Well, good for him for hiring based on qualifications and not looks. Then again, maybe this was the sort of thing Gabe was into.

“Hi there,” Dean walked up to the desk and held his hand out. “Dean Smith, sales and marketing. You Gabe's newest grunt?”

The dark-haired man looked up from the papers he'd been transcribing. “Castiel,” he replied. “Castiel Novak. I guess you could say that.”

“Novak?” Dean raised an eyebrow. That wasn't a very common name.

“Yeah, and don't think about stealing him!” Gabriel marched out of the office and perched on the corner of Castiel's desk. “I saw him first.”

Dean chuckled. There was a definite resemblance around their eyes, even if Gabe was a bit shorter. “Didn't know it was bring your kid to work day,” he teased.

“Hey!” Gabriel pulled a pen out of the cup on Castiel's desk and threw it at Dean. “I may have started young, but I wasn't popping out kiddos at eight years old.”

“Gross, Gabe,” Castiel protested, shoving his brother off his desk. “Don't sit on the Peterson file.”

“See what I put up with?” Gabriel threw his hands in the air. “Get them a cushy, part-time job that pays their bills and lets them pursue their academic interests and all they care about is the Peterson file.”

Dean rescued the file and glanced over the contents. “You're supposed to sign this and turn it in to Mr. Adler before lunch,” he remarked.

“I've been trying,” Castiel complained. “He keeps saying Mr. Adler is a creep and doesn't deserve timely paperwork.”

“That's enough!” Gabriel yanked the file out of Dean's hands, scribbled his signature in the marked places, and thrust it back. “If the two of you are gonna gang up on me, you can at least take these up to creepy Mr. Adler.”

Dean laughed, tucking the Peterson file in with his other paperwork. Ever since Sam Wesson had moved to a senior IT position he hadn't been able to see his friend as often, it would be nice to have someone else to talk to in the office.

. . .

“Heya, Cas!” Dean leaned against one edge of the assistant's desk (after checking that it was clear of reports). “You coming to the end-of-quarter party?”

Castiel glanced up for a moment, then refocused his attention on the screen in front of him. “I'm not much for parties.”

“Aw, come on,” Dean stretched his legs out and crossed them at the ankles, hands resting on the desk. “They're always a blast. They're raffling off a karaoke machine this year.”

The dark-haired man hesitated, then clicked through a few screens on his computer before turning to face Dean. “I'm afraid I don't drink alcohol, so those parties are usually not very enjoyable.”

“You kidding?” Dean shook his head. “It's a company party, Cas. Yeah, they have rum punch and wine and stuff, but there's non-alcoholic, too. We've got kids under twenty-one here, gotta have options for them.”

“Hey, Cassie, this guy bothering you?” Gabriel leaned heavily against Dean, tapping his fist into his open palm with an exaggerated scowl.

“Just trying to convince him to go to the party,” Dean replied. “Come on, Gabe, you don't want your kid brother missing out on all the fun?”

An odd look passed between the brothers. To Dean it almost looked like a silent conversation, like they were weighing some dark family secret. “I think that's up to Cassie to decide if that's a good idea,” Gabriel finally said.

Castiel nodded and ducked his head back down. Dean looked between the Novaks, a frown creasing his forehead. Something wasn't right about this.

. . .

Dean finally caught Castiel alone in the break room, where the dark-haired man was fixing two cups of coffee. “Hey, is everything okay?” he asked, quietly edging Cas toward the corner.

“Everything is fine, Dean,” Cas replied. He hadn't been avoiding Dean, per se, but he hadn't made any effort to speak with him. Dean had noticed that Cas seemed withdrawn, or maybe socially awkward, and didn't really go out of his way to speak to anyone except his brother.

“I mean with Gabriel,” Dean continued. He tried to relax, to appear concerned but not threatening. “Seems like I never get to speak to you without him interrupting.”

Cas shrugged, glancing up to make eye contact then looking away. “My brother has always been protective of me.”

“Yeah, but Cas, there's a difference between protection and control, you know? Like with the party, it's up to you if you want to go. You're a grown man, Cas, you can make those decisions.”

Cas pulled away, turning back to add more sugar to one of the coffee cups. “We've spoken about it. Gabriel is concerned that the party might not be the best place for me.”

“Come on, man, live a little!” Dean shuffled back around in front of Cas. “Look, I promise I'll be right there with you the whole time. I'll watch out for you, okay? Get you the right punch, cut your tiny sandwiches for you, I'll even let you take my raffle tickets for the karaoke machine.”

That did bring a chuckle out of Cas. “Why do you keep bringing that up?”

Dean shrugged. “Sounds like fun. Who doesn't love karaoke?”

Castiel shook his head. “I will think about it.”

“Hey, that's all I ask,” Dean spread his hands and grinned.

, , ,

“Look who it is!” Dean threw an arm around Cas's shoulders and lead him over to the side of the room where he'd been talking to Sam. “Sam Wesson, meet the illusive Castiel Novak.”

“Thank god, maybe Dean will shut up about you,” Sam joked, accepting Cas's handshake with a grin.

Cas ducked his head, seeming ill at ease with the crowded conference room. “I can only be here for a few hours,” he said apologetically.

“What? But the raffle isn't until midnight!” Dean protested. “Come on, I can take you home after.”

“No, it's just not a good idea. I don't do well with...people,” Cas gave a small shudder and glanced at the surge of the crowd.

“Well, you can always change your mind,” Dean offered. “Here, talk to Sam, I'll get you some punch.” He shoved the slighter man at the IT giant and scuttled off through the crowd. Yes, Cas was almost as tall as Dean, but Sam dwarfed nearly every man at the company.

As he had promised Cas, there were two punch bowls. One had a dark red rum punch, the other a yellow-orange one made with fruit juice and club soda. He poured two cups of the non-alcoholic punch and made his way back to his friends.

“Here we are, fresh from the kiddie bowl!” Dean joked, passing a cup to Cas.

Sam's eyebrows shot up. “Staying off the hard stuff tonight?”

“Well, I have to drive home,” Dean explained. “Besides, Cas doesn't drink, so I thought I'd keep him company.”

Sam, who had a bottle of water in his hand, just nodded his head. Dean grinned and leaned back against the wall next to Cas—he'd figured the other man's hesitation might have something to do with him not drinking, and the more he could see that people just didn't care the more comfortable he might be.

They spent a comfortable hour or so, chatting about work and hobbies. Sam had gotten Dean hooked on a show about ghost hunters and was thrilled to learn Castiel watched the same series. They nerded out to occult stuff that Dean could barely follow, though it was interesting to hear, until he noticed Cas seemed to be having trouble keeping upright.

“Cas? You okay?”

Castiel tried to look at him, but couldn't seem to focus. He wavered, then stiffened with a sharp cry before his body folded. Dean swore and caught him on the way down, nearly dropping him in panic when Castiel started spasming.

“He's seizing,” Sam was next to him, tearing off his jacket to bunch under Cas's head. “Dean, let go, just make sure he doesn't hit anything.”

Dean's heart tightened in his chest as Cas's body arced up off the floor, his breath making an awful shuddering in his chest. “What do we do, do I put my wallet in his mouth.”

“No, that's too dangerous,” Sam had his phone out, staring at something on the screen. “Just make sure he stays on his side. You said he had a brother, is he here?”

“Yeah...Gabe...he should be...” Dean glanced around, noticing the partygoers starting to stare in their direction.

“No, don't leave,” Sam glanced up to, and moved to stand to block most of the view of Cas's seizure. “I'll get someone to find him.”

Dean nodded, focusing his attention back on Cas. It was awful. He'd had a friend who had seizures when he was a kid, but he'd never seen one. Cas's teeth gnashed, his body jerked, and bloody foam was trickling out of his mouth. Dean felt tears of hopeless in his eyes, afraid to even touch Cas in case he somehow made it worst.

Finally, after an eternity, Cas's body went limp. “Sam!” Dean shouted over his shoulder, leaning over to gently wipe the spittle away from Cas's mouth.

“6:17,” Sam shook his head as he knelt beside them. “Ambulance is on its way.”

“What?”

“It was over five minutes, Dean,” Sam tugged at Dean's jacket until the older man let him slip it off, then spread it over Cas's waist. Only then did Dean notice the wetness on Cas's pants.

Dean shuddered and rested his hand on the side of Castiel's neck. He was breathing, at least, even if his pulse was jumpy. “Did you find Gabriel?”

“One of my guys was supposed to...there he is.”

Dean looked up, relieved to see the older Novak shouldering his way through the crowd. “Cassie!” Gabriel dropped to his knees across from Dean, facing Castiel's back. “What the hell did you do, Smith?”

“Me?” Dean stared in growing anger. “What about you? Where the hell were you?”

“You were the one who said you'd look after him!” Gabriel made a wide gesture at the party. “Did you think it would be funny, sneaking him a little booze? Or maybe you just wanted to shove him out on the dance floor, let him loosen up a little?”

“What the hell, Gabe!” Dean didn't even realize he was shouting too. “We were just talking! We've been drinking the fruit stuff all night, I wouldn't do that to him!”

Sam picked up Cas's empty cup and sniffed it. He frowned, then did the same to Dean's. “Did you say this was supposed to be non-alcoholic?” he asked.

“Yes!” Dean dropped his voice, noticing that Cas had started to move. “Where's that ambulance?”

“Someone spiked it,” Sam announced, disgust coloring his voice. “It's not much, but if Cas isn't supposed to have alcohol it could be enough.”

Gabriel's face tightened with anger. He swore, violently and colorfully, only breaking his sentence off as Castiel gave a whimper.

“Hey, buddy,” Dean leaned forward, resting his hand on Cas's shoulder.

Cas's eyes were unfocused and he only managed another whimper before he let his head drop.

Gabriel scooted around to take Dean's place, gently wiping away a tear that had trickled out of his brother's closed eyes. “You get to go to the hospital now,” he murmured, leaning in close so that his forehead touched Cas's. “Maybe Dr. Richards is there tonight, we can cancel next week's appointment, right?”

Cas murmured something unintelligible and Gabriel gave a short laugh that sounded on the verge of tears. “Yeah, I know, kiddo. This really sucks.”

. . .

“He was diagnosed when he was four,” Gabriel explained. The three were stuck in a waiting room while the emergency staff took care of Castiel. Gabe had ridden in the ambulance, Dean had driven Gabe's car so the older Novak could get home, and Sam had followed to take Dean home. “He's had more doctors and tests than I can count, been on a list of medications longer than your arm, and there's a good chance he'll never be able to live on his own.”

Dean sat in an uncomfortable chair, head down, hands folded between his knees. “So when you got him the job...”

“Yeah,” Gabe nodded. “We finally found something that keeps him stable, and it's some quiet part-time work so he can be out of the house and do something for himself. Until now.”

“Hey, maybe it was the alcohol,” Sam offered. “I had a friend back in college who had epilepsy—he couldn't touch the stuff or it would trigger a seizure.”

Gabriel shrugged. “We won't know unless he has another one. Which sucks.”

“Is he gonna have to quit?” Dean asked quietly. He felt terrible...all because of that stupid party.

“That's up to him,” Gabe shrugged and rolled his shoulders, twisting to ease the tension in his back. “Obviously I want to lock him up in a room full of pillows, but Cassie's a big boy. If he wants to try Sandover again...man, I just want him to be happy.”

Dean nodded. “I hope he comes back.”

“If he doesn't,” Gabriel hesitated, working something over in his head. “Look, the kid doesn't have a whole lot of people. Lotta folks kinda fade away when something like this happens. I'm just saying, think you could stick around, even if he doesn't come back to work?”

Dean was already nodding before Gabriel had even finished.

“Of course, man,” Sam said. “Kinda feels like we were destined to meet him, you know?”

Gabe snorted at that, turning away as the nurse called for him. “Yeah, I guess I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just two little notes here.
> 
> 1) I've found a lot of Sandover AUs but they always seem to be slash (either Cas/Dean or Dean/Sam). I always kind of wanted to see what would happen in a gen version of that world.
> 
> 2) I have epilepsy, and though I was lucky enough to find the right medication early on to control my seizures I know there are so many people who haven't. It's hard to treat, and they still don't know what trigger mine or why they didn't start until I was 31. Alcohol can trigger seizures or other unpleasant side effects, depending on the medication. Mine, for example, just makes me drunk extra quickly and belligerent but in some people and with some medications it can absolutely trigger seizures. 
> 
> Anyway, just wanted to share some info.
> 
> Next time: Hallucination (Wasteland)


	22. Hallucination (Wasteland)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo-hoo! It's finally here! I wasn't sure about doing this, but here goes! 
> 
> This is a Fallout AU, kind of similar to the idea I had for a full story. Like the Sandover one, I wanted to write a little bit to see how I felt about it, and I kinda like it. But Whumptober first, of course!

Crouched in the shadow of the dilapidated locksmith shop, Dean leaned around the corner just enough to check on the raider party moving through eastern Lebanon. “They're heading off,” he whispered over his shoulder.

Sam knelt beside him, empty satchel slung over his shoulder, and watched the raiders for a few seconds. “They're heading away from the clinic,” he observed.

“Yeah, good for us,” Dean replied, glancing back at the third member of their party. He liked Cas, he was a good fit for their little scavenging team. Over the years the brothers had taken in more settlers and refugees than they could count, until the bunker their grandfather had discovered was more like an underground city than a secret hideout. Not everyone stayed on, and he'd met more than a few who didn't want to pull their weight, but Castiel and his siblings were a real benefit to the bunker. From what Cas had said, they were escapees from some crazy vault, though they'd all been pretty quick to find a place to help the community.

For Cas, that meant going out with the hunters and scavengers for supplies.

“I don't see how anything would still be at the clinic,” Cas muttered, resting his back against the locksmith shop's wall and keeping an eye on the road behind them.

Dean snorted. “What, two hundred year old bandaids not your thing, Cas? No, we've got a buddy who uses it as a stash point when he can't make it all the way to the bunker.”

“Benny said he had a new razorgrain variety,” Sam added. “After losing half the crop to bloatflies we need something new to plant.”

Dean didn't reply to that, shouldering his rifle to move forward to new cover. Benny and Andrea had converted an old container ship to a mobile greenhouse, to keep them safe from raiders and other nasties. Much as he wanted Benny's experimental crops to work, he would rather have something solid to take back to his people.

“Wait,” Cas grabbed his arm and yanked him back into the shadows. “Straggler.”

One last raider was limping after the party, scratching at a nasty radiation burn on his arm. Dean unshouldered his rifle and took aim, braced on the frame of an old car, but Cas put a hand on the barrel and pressed it down. “Just wait.”

For a few seconds, the straggler shuffled after the party, then his legs gave way and he dropped to the ground. Dean pulled up the rifle again, but a few of the other raiders reappeared, jeering at their companion as they picked him up and helped him follow the rest of the party. Dean let out a sigh and lowered his gun, throwing Cas a grateful look. Even if he'd made the shot, they weren't really equipped for a full raiding party.

“Think we're clear,” Sam whispered, edging up to check the street the raiders had disappeared down. “Yeah, they're headed for the newspaper building.”

Dean was itching to clear out the raiders that had nested so close to the bunker, but this wasn't the time. Later, after they'd gotten the stash of food and medical supplies back to the bunker. He didn't have enough people to take Lebanon for good, but they could wipe out the raiders that settled in. “All right, let's go,” he waved Cas ahead of him, following Sam, and kept the rear guard himself this time.

The Lebanon clinic was a simple building, hardly bigger than the map room back at the bunker. Pre-war it had had a main front room and four smaller rooms, two on each side of a central hallway. Near as Dean could tell, they had been two exam rooms, an office for the doctor, and a kind of lab/break room.

“It's locked,” Sam called.

“Yeah, well, keeps out the scavengers,” Dean snarked. “Here, let me get it.”

Sam, while a genius at hacking terminals, was no match for Dean at picking locks. He stepped back with an exaggerated sigh and rolled his eyes at Cas, who smiled.

“Ha! Easy as pie!” Dean crowed as the door swung open. Before he could even pick his rifle back up, the sharp snap of a tripwire was heard, followed by the hissing of a gas canister.

“Dean!” Sam shoved Cas away from the gas, nearly sending the smaller man tumbling down the steps in front of the clinic. He grabbed the back of Dean's jacket, tucking his own face into his shoulder to keep from breathing any of the gas in, and hauled Dean out into the street where the air is clear.

“This isn't good.”

Sam looked up to see Cas was back in the doorway to the clinic, the neck of his shirt pulled up to cover his mouth and nose. A long, thin canister was in one hand, and he was wrapping a piece of rag around the end to slow the gas leak.

“What is it?” Sam asked, coughing into his sleeve. Dean was staring up at the sky, eyes wide, practically hyperventilating.

“Hallucigen,” Cas sounded disgusted. “I don't think your friend left this here.”

Sam's stomach dropped. Hallucigen was nasty. He'd heard of entire nests of raiders wiping each other out because of that stuff.

“Sammy...” Dean's hand, fingers hooked and claw-like, grabbed Sam's arm. “Get the stuff.”

“No, Dean,” Sam shook his head. “Ash probably wasn't even here, it was a trap.”

Dean let out a pained sound, shoving away from Sam to roll over. He started crawling toward the clinic, stopping to cough and retch after only a few feet.

“Cas?” Sam glanced up, but his friend was gone. Stunned, Sam could only grab onto Dean's arms and try to pull him back. “We'll come back later. We have to get you home now, let you sleep this off.”

“No!” Dean growled and threw Sam off, turning on him with a snarl. “Stay out of my way!”

Sam was expecting the lunge. He and Dean had sparred together so many times he could almost predict every move his brother was going to make, even crazed with the hallucinogenic gas. He ducked his brother's outspread arms and shoved him away, letting Dean's momentum carry him out of arm's reach. “Cas! We need to go!”

Dean snarled again and charged, yanking his knife out of his belt to fly at Sam. There was no way to tell what his brother was seeing—few people survived a brush with Hallucigen with clear enough memories to describe their hallucinations. Sam dodged the knife, stepped into Dean's reach and slammed his elbow against his brother's sternum. “Cas!”

“Here,” Cas trotted out of the clinic, Sam's satchel over one shoulder. “Someone got to the stash, but they didn't get all of it. I found some meds and the seedlings Benny promised.”

“That's great,” Sam bit out, fighting to keep Dean in an armlock. “Can you help me here?”

“Ah, yes,” Cas pulled the satchel off and rooted through it. “I found a few Stimpaks.”

Sam bit back a yelp as Dean somehow twisted free and slammed the back of his head into Sam's nose. He tried to blink away the blindness, but Dean was on him in seconds, calloused hands digging into Sam's throat.

“Dean!” Sam coughed, slamming his hands into Dean's elbows to try to break his hold. “Dean, it's me.”

Dean's eyes were already bloodshot, his face frozen in a snarl. “Sammy's dead,” he growled. “You think I don't see them?”

Before Sam could respond, Cas had leaped onto Dean's back. The dark-haired man locked one arm around Dean's neck, the other hand poised to jam the Stimpak into Dean's neck but Dean roared in anger and grabbed Cas by the arm, hurling him over Sam's body to sprawl in the street.

“They're all dead!” Dean shouted, leaping up from Sam to charge at Cas. “You can't hide it anymore!”

Coughing, one hand to his throat, Sam rolled painfully up to his knees as Dean caught Cas around the waist, lifted him in the air, and slammed him back down on the ground. Sam hadn't seen Cas sparring too often, but it was clear his friend had learned how to fight dirty. Even as Dean slammed him on the ground and got a hand around Cas's throat, Cas was boxing Dean's ears and kneeing him in the side right below his ribcage.

Sam knew the smaller man wouldn't last long. With the gas still wreaking havoc on his system, Dean was feeling no pain. Sam climbed to his feet to stagger to the fight, his only plan to somehow get enough leverage on Dean to choke him out, when his foot struck something. He looked down to see the Stimpak Cas had been trying to inject into Dean, fallen to the ground and mercifully not broken.

“Sam!” Dean had pulled another knife, and Cas was losing ground to the press of the blade against his throat.

Sam scooped up the syringe and sprinted toward his brother. Predictably, Dean dropped Cas to focus on the new opponent with a snarl. Sam let Dean lunge with the knife, then grabbed that wrist and used the momentum to spin Dean close enough for him to jab the Stimpak into his brother's neck. Dean howled and knocked him away, knife raised in both hands, then staggered a step back with a confused look on his face.

“...Sammy?”

Sam was taking no chances. He swept his brother's legs out from under him and knocked him out with a sharp blow to the head.

Cas groaned, propping himself up on his elbows. “Sam?”

“I'm okay. We both are, I guess, once he sleeps this off. How about you?”

“I'll live,” Cas twisted to get his knees under him, then let out a pained grunt and wrapped one arm around his stomach. “At least I think I will.”

Sam snorted. “Yeah, me too. Well, let's get sleeping beauty inside, unless you want to carry him to the bunker.”

Cas squinted down at Dean's still form and shook his head. “I think he should carry us.”

Sam actually laughed at that. “Sounds good to me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took some liberties with Hallucigen, since the player character reacts differently than NPCs. I'm assuming a Stimpak would clear that up, since it has no problem healing crippled limbs.
> 
> Next time: Bleeding Out (Surrogate)


	23. Bleeding Out (Surrogate)

Claire wrapped her jacket more tightly around herself, settling down in a corner of the porch of Jody's cabin. Sure, a girls' weekend had seemed like a great idea—even if every weekend at home was, technically, a girls' weekend—but being this far away from civilization was never really Claire's idea of a good time. Life on the road, hunting monsters, living day to day, that was one thing...but roughing it on purpose?

And okay. Roughing it in a cozy, climate-controlled cabin with hot water and flushing toilets was maybe stretching it. And sure, Donna had promised to teach her some new grappling techniques she'd picked up at a seminar. And yes, Patience had turned out to be good enough at Street Fighter to be a decent challenge, unlike Alex. So maybe it was a little fun. But only a little.

“Hey, kiddo,” Jody settled down beside her, handing her a mug of coffee. “Donna's talking about making steaks and hashbrown casserole for dinner, that sound good?”

Claire shrugged.

“You know what, you're right. Steamed cabbage would be better, but wouldn't you know it? I left the cabbage back home.”

Claire rolled her eyes, ducking her head to hide her smile as Jody jostled her shoulder. “I guess it sounds good.”

“Oh, you guess?” Jody made a face and dropped her voice, in a horrible imitation of a moody teenager (which Claire definitely was not). “And I guess law enforcement bingo is an okay entertainment for tonight?”

This time Claire actually had to muffle her laugh in her sleeve. Donna and Jody had invented the game. They'd make up bingo cards for law enforcement tropes in movies or TV, and the first one to get a bingo got to pick the next movie.

“Come on, you're having fun,” Jody teased.

Claire shook her head. “It's not that. I just feel like I missed something.”

Jody nodded, propping one leg on the deck so she could rest her mug on her knee. “Donna and I are keeping an eye out, too. I think the boys said they were close enough to check out one of your other leads.”

With a grimace, Claire pulled her jacket a little tighter. She'd been after a pack of werewolves, with Jody's help, but one of them had caught her on the leg before she killed it. Claire hated leaving a hunt unfinished, but Jody and Donna had insisted they all take a weekend to recuperate.

It wasn't just for Claire, though. Alex hadn't had a weekend off from the hospital in nearly two months, and she was all too happy to take a few days off.

“Well, we'd better head inside,” Jody commented, standing to her feet. “Donna's probably planning on roping you into cubing the potatoes, since you have the best knifework.”

Claire grinned and pulled herself up, taking one last look at the forest before turning to head inside.

She didn't notice the shadow detach itself from the tree line. She didn't notice anything until Jody screamed her name and shoved her down.

Then it was snarling and teeth and blood and Jody was screaming for a different reason.

“No!” Claire pulled the silver knife out of her boot and launched herself at the werewolf, stabbing anything she could reach. It turned on her, claws dripping with Jody's blood, and made a grab for her arm.

“Claire, get down!”

At Alex's shout Claire dropped to the deck, flinching a little at each round as Alex emptied half a clip of silver bullets into the werewolf. Then she was up again, shoving the corpse away from Jody and trying to see the damage.

The older woman was still alive, though her chest and stomach were shredded. Claire barely noticed the tears in her own eyes as she whipped off her jacket to press against the horrible wounds.

Alex was swearing under her breath—probably words she'd picked up from the guys on the night shift at the hospital, but the part of Claire that wasn't screaming in panic was a little impressed.

“Claire! Dammit, Claire!”

Claire's head snapped back up, finally making eye contact with her surrogate sister. “Alex?”

“Keep the pressure up, whatever you do,” Alex had jumped back up to her feet. She hollered for Patience and Donna, one to get her first aid kit and the other to check the perimeter. Then she was back by Claire's side, unrolling a set of surgical tools.

“Shouldn't we call an ambulance?” Patience asked from the door to the cabin. Her face was pale, hands trembling, but she was holding on pretty well for someone will almost no hunting experience.

“We don't have time,” Alex replied. “Here, Claire, press here,” she gently moved Claire's hand. “Patience, I need you here. I can't stitch fast enough, she's bleeding out.”

Patience was on her knees on Jody's other side, her smaller hands framing Claire's as they kept pressure on the wounds. Jody was gasping for breath, and she managed to catch hold of Claire's sleeve.

“It's okay...” Jody whispered. “It's okay, kiddo.”

“No,” Claire shook her head, clamping down harder despite Jody's whimper. No, it wasn't okay. If she had only gotten the werewolf.

She was muttering, she realized. Words she hadn't said in years, old prayers her father had once taught her. New ones someone else had taught her, strictly for emergencies.

Her phone rang.

Alex glanced up, needle in hand, and slipped one hand over Claire's. Claire pulled that hand free and took out the phone. Only a handful of people had her number, and she nearly sobbed in relief when she saw Castiel's name on the screen.

“Claire!” the angel's voice was frantic. “Where are you? What happened to Jody?”

“We're...um...we're at her cabin,” Claire gasped. “It's, it's bad.”

There was a shuffling, and another voice broke in.

“Claire, we're less than two hours away,” Sam said, the echo to his voice sounding like the phone was on speaker. An engine roared in the background, and she could picture the Impala tearing up the road. “Make that an hour an a half.”

Claire caught Alex's eye, and the other woman lifted one shoulder in a shrug.

“Hurry,” Claire gasped out. She dropped the phone and took over pressure on Jody's wounds again. Patience was talking to the older woman in a low, soothing tone. Sounded like she was quizzing Jody on trespassing fines—something the sheriff had drilled into all her girls.

Donna came around the corner, shotgun in hand. “Looks clear,” she announced. “Oh, Jodes.”

“Donna, there's IV saline in the back of my car,” Alex said. “Can you grab that and a blanket?”

Claire blinked at Alex in astonishment as Donna trotted off. “You keep saline in the back of your car?”

“And antibiotics, and morphine, and a lot of other things I could get in serious trouble for,” Alex retorted, tying off a suture. “I live with hunters.”

Donna returned with the IV kit slung under one arm. “I can set the needle,” she said quietly, scooting Patience over a little for access to her friend's arm. Jody's other arm was still resting against Claire's, though the grip was somewhat lax now.

Claire glanced down at the screen on her phone. Seventy-eight minutes to go. “It's okay, Jody,” she murmured, wiping her own tears on the shoulder of her flannel shirt. “You're gonna be okay.”

Seventy-seven minutes.

In fact, the cavalry arrived sixty-three minutes later. Claire didn't realize it until she was being pulled away from Jody's body, her view blocked by a figure in a tan trench coat, and turned around into Dean Winchester's embrace. She let out a half-sob and buried her face in the man's shoulder, bloodstained hands clenching his shirt.

Behind her, Jody gave a gasp and started coughing. She pulled away enough to see the older woman sitting up, propped against Patience's shoulder, her skin smooth and whole beneath the tears in her clothing.

Claire turned away from Dean and dropped down to wrap her arms around Jody, burying her face in the older woman's shoulder. She felt Alex join her, her surrogate sister's shoulders shaking as she cried. Jody's hand came up to card through Claire's hair.

“It's okay, kiddo,” she whispered, kissing first Claire's temple, then Alex's. “It's okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just really need more Mom!Jody in my life. As much as I liked Mary's arc, I just really want some more of Jody.
> 
> I'm picturing Alex's car with a hidden compartment in the trunk, like Baby's, but stocked with her own private surgery equipment.
> 
> Next time: Hidden Wounds (Penance)


	24. Secret Injury (Penance)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: writing this chapter really screwed me up and I didn't notice for a few hours. Please proceed with caution if you're sensitive to emotional or mental abuse or gaslighting. 
> 
> These things can fester and take a long time to show themselves, so please, if someone you trust is concerned about your relationship with a loved one, please take a good look at what they're concerned about. Sometimes the bad grows so slowly you get used to it before you know it's bad.

Castiel let the bunker door close behind him, stopping for a moment to relax in the feeling of being _home_. Heaven wasn't much of a home anymore—not for him, anyway. He rolled his shoulders, trying to relieve their stiffness, and slowly made his way down to the dormitories. Sam and Dean would be asleep this late, and he would have plenty of time to rest before facing them.

Not that he was hiding his visits to Heaven, not exactly. They just hadn't asked, and he didn't think they would approve.

“Well, you're home late.”

Castiel froze, finally noticing Dean leaning against the doorway that lead to some of the storage rooms.

“I was, uh, out,” Castiel offered lamely.

“Yeah, I noticed,” Dean pushed himself forward and walked toward Castiel. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, fine,” Castiel wracked his brain, trying to remember what humans did to convince each other. He managed a crooked smile and a thumb's-up.

Dean's eyebrows shot up. He stared from the thumb to Castiel's face and back again, and the moment stretched on for so long even Castiel could tell it was ridiculous. “Well...I'm going to bed,” the angel finally said, lamely.

“You don't sleep!” Dean called after him.

“Yes, I'm going to lie in bed and...contemplate the...universe,” Castiel shouted over his shoulder, scurrying down the hall to his room. The stiffness in his shoulders was spreading into a burning ache that traveled down his back and out his arms. Whatever healing Naomi had attempted after her little procedure hadn't been enough. He collapsed on his bed and curled up on his side, tensing as the pain radiated out into limbs that didn't exist in this dimension.

Dean probably knocked on the door or shouted at him, but he'd already let his mind go blank as he retreated into himself to channel his own grace. What was left of it, anyway. Naomi hadn't been gentle.

“_I told you we needed every angel in heaven,” Naomi began._

_Castiel folded his arms, leveling a glare at her. If she'd just called him back to convince him to stay again she was going to regret it._

“_I'm not asking you to stay,” Naomi rolled her eyes, apparently seeing the mulish expression on Castiel's face. “I know you'd never put the wellbeing of Heaven above your precious Winchesters.”_

_He started to reply to that, but she'd already held a hand up to silence him. “All I'm asking is that you lend Heaven some power. I'm asking this of all the angels staying on earth, in fact. Just a pinch of grace and a few feathers—you wouldn't even miss them.”_

_Castiel took a step back, one hand unconsciously going to his throat. He had an instant thought of Metatron carving his grace out, sealing the wound and throwing him to earth. Those awful days trying to find the bunker, only to have that safety torn away from him by one of the few people he'd thought he could trust._

“_Don't be so dramatic,” Naomi spat. She wrenched open a drawer in her desk and took out a syringe, similar to the one Castiel had used on Sam to extract Gadreel's grace. “If everyone gives a little bit, we can keep Heaven running for a long time.”_

_His eyes glanced at the chair, the one she'd strapped him in so many times for reeducation. Naomi swiftly stepped between him and the chair, hiding it from view. “I'm asking, Castiel,” she said, her voice almost soothing. “Just asking.”_

_Castiel hesitated. If it was true...if just a little bit of his grace, or one of his ruined feathers, could help save Heaven.... Well, the grace would regenerate, and the feathers were useless anyway._

_She must have seen the acceptance in his eyes, as she guided him to a stool on the other side of the office. “Wings first,” she commanded. “It will be harder to manifest them after I harvest your grace.”_

_He felt a brush of apprehension at the word harvest, but pulled his wings out of the ethereal plane before he could change his mind. Naomi made a disappointed sound, and Castiel felt the brush of shame he'd endured ever since Metatron's spell shredded his grace. There was so little left of his wings...why hadn't the Empty fully restored him?_

“_I'm afraid this will hurt,” was all the warning Naomi gave before she grabbed and _wrenched_ and Castiel screamed._

“Whoa, hey, it's just me!”

Castiel blinked up into a pair of familiar hazel eyes. “S-sam?”

“Yeah, hey,” the taller man gently sat on the edge of the bed, one hand still on Castiel's arm. “Geez, Cas, how long have you been sleeping?”

The angel blinked in confusion for a moment, glancing at the clock beside the bed. “Three hours and twenty-eight minutes.”

“What?” Sam looked at the clock, then shook his head with a short laugh. “No, Cas, I meant how long...like days, weeks, that kind of thing.”

Castiel rolled onto his back, grateful that the few hours' sleep had renewed his grace enough to ease the constant pain. “Eighteen days,” he admitted. He'd been to Heaven three times now, and every visit was the same. Naomi would ruthlessly pull whatever feathers she thought were good enough, then siphon away enough of his grace to leave him weak and shaky. She claimed she would take less if more angels were helping, but that it was his responsibility as the one who'd ruined Heaven in the first place.

His penance. If he wouldn't stay in Heaven, the least he could do was keep it afloat.

Sam had leaned back, alarm across his face. “Eighteen days?”

“It's because Heaven is low on power,” Castiel said, smoothly producing the lie he and Naomi had conjured. “In order to preserve my grace for dire situations, I've been needing to sleep.”

“Oh.” Sam frowned at this, but Castiel hoped he had been convincing. “Would eating help, too?”

Castiel closed his eyes, one hand covering his stomach. He had to admit, his vessel felt a little empty some days. It always passed as his grace returned, but it felt too much like being human.

“Well, just let us know,” Sam patted him on the leg and stood up. “I think I found a case out in Colorado, you want to come along?”

He nodded, rising from his bed to join the Winchesters for breakfast.

If he ignored it, he didn't even feel the dizziness.

. . .

“_Hold him!” Naomi snapped. “Castiel, really, you don't need to make this so difficult.”_

_Castiel thrashed against the angels holding his arms, pinning him down to Naomi's desk. She'd been taking more and more now; his wings were practically bare, in some places only the tiny buds of the few feathers that were actually growing back in were left._

_Those were what she wanted this time, though. She claimed that the new feathers had the closest connection to his grace, and therefore would provide the best power for Heaven. _

_They also had to be cut out._

“_Dammit, Castiel!” Naomi twisted one fist in his hair and slammed his head against the desk. “Just remember, you made me do this!” _

_The needle pierced his neck, his grace draining into the bulb at the base of the syringe. He cried out as his strength drained away—she'd never taken his grace before his feathers before. He would have nothing to dull the pain, nothing to heal any wounds left behind. _

“_Take him to the chair.”_

“_No!” Castiel twisted against the angels holding him, but his weakened grace was no match. He couldn't break free, couldn't pull his wings from this plane, couldn't even scream as Naomi waved a hand and his mouth sealed shut._

_He was forced down, arms and legs strapped in, wings stretched out to either side._

“_Now,” Naomi pulled a tray around, a line of scalpels made of ethereal metal shining under the harsh lights of her office. “This will all be over soon.”_

“Hey, you okay?”

Castiel blinked his eyes, a hiss of pain escaping as his body jerked back to consciousness. “Yes, Dean?”

The hunter was frowning at him. “You don't usually doze off like that, Cas,” Dean explained, sitting next to him on the sofa as Castiel pulled his knees in close.

“My apologies.”

“No, man, wait,” Dean rested a hand on Castiel's knee to keep him there, and the angel fought to keep his face neutral as even that touch hurt. Naomi had dug _deep _this time, draining his grace until there was practically nothing left. He wasn't even sure how much he could regenerate before his next appointment...before the scalpels and the pain and the chair and the drill....

“Cas!”

Dean's hands were on his face, and he had collapsed sideways off the couch to sprawl on the floor. “Dean?”

“Dammit,” Dean hooked his hands under Castiel's arms and hauled the angel back up, only to drop him and pull back when Castiel cried out. “What? What'd I do?”

“N-nothing, Castiel grit his teeth and braced one arm on the sofa cushion to force himself to his feet. “I just need to rest.”

“Cas!” Dean snatched at his arm but Castiel stepped away, his body still tingling and sensitive.

He managed a few, shuffling steps toward the door but the world was tilting and going white and he could hear the drill and her hands were on his wings....

“_You're not the only one doing this, you know,” Naomi scolded. “There are other angels who come up here—ones who don't deserve to go through this—who are happy to sacrifice what they can for Heaven's sake.”_

_Castiel twisted in the cuffs but they were solid. They were always solid. Just being in the chair again brought memories of pain and whirring drills and the terrible things he'd been forced to do. _

“_It's not like these will ever fly again.” she scoffed, twitching one of his wings. “I don't see why you're even growing feathers anymore.”_

_He couldn't answer if he wanted to, her power keeping him mute. But he'd held out hope...they all had...that it would just take time. It had only been a few years since the angels had fallen, and what was that to the life of an angel? _

_He'd returned, of course. It was his responsibility, his penance. _

_But surely she had enough?_

“_I'm going to have to take most of these today,” Naomi complained, running her finger along the tender stubs near the base of his left wing. “There's very little else worth harvesting any more...I hope you understand how far back this sets us.”_

_Castiel didn't. She was the one taking his feathers, his grace. She was the reason he couldn't regenerate grace fast enough, why he only had twisted and broken shafts and the barest nubs of new growth left. It was humiliating, to be stripped bare and mocked for it._

_A tear trailed down his cheek, but Naomi just scoffed. “I suppose you think an apology is enough?” she asked. She lifted a scalpel and held it so the light caught on its blade. “We'll see how sorry you can be.”_

“I don't know why you think there's anything I can do.”

The world was slowly righting itself. He was lying on a bed, stripped to the waist with a blanket tucked around his chest. And that voice...had Anael returned to Heaven?

“He's an angel, you're an angel,” Dean snarked. “Can't you, I don't know, tell if he has bird flu?”

Castiel fought to open his eyes. If Dean was here, this couldn't be Heaven...unless Naomi had kept him longer than he'd thought and he was now in the Winchester's afterlife.

“He's not sick,” Anael snapped back. “He's been weakened. Something's been chewing at his grace and his wings, from the looks of things.”

“What could do that?” Sam asked. Castiel could feel the younger man's presence in the room now, seated in a chair next to the bed. Dean was at the foot of the bed, leaning back on the mattress with his hand next to Castiel's toes.

“N-naomi,” Castiel rasped. He was so utterly exhausted, he didn't care if the Winchesters found out. “She's been taking it...to fuel Heaven.”

Sam made a concerned sound, and Dean moved up to lean over Castiel with one hand on the angel's chest. “Taking what, Cas?”

“His grace and feathers,” Anael replied. She almost sounded sympathetic, but underneath that was the all-to-familiar undertone of someone who blamed him for Heaven's fall.

“What could she do with that?” Sam asked.

“Heaven needs angels,” Castiel explained, finally managing to pry his eyes open. Dean's face was a blur above him, and Sam's face soon joined until his vision was nothing but blurry Winchesters. “We fuel Heaven.”

Anael snorted. “That's a lie.”

Castiel stilled. His heart was pounding, even his pulse was painful to his too-sensitive skin. “Anael...”

“What?” She stormed over, neatly shrugging Dean aside. “You actually bought that act? You, of all people?”

He blinked up at her, in total confusion, and to his astonishment her eyes widened and she stepped back. “Oh my god. You didn't know.”

“Know what?” Dean had pushed himself back in between Castiel and Anael. “What's that bitch done now?”

“It's her usual scam,” Anael retorted. “She tried it on me, but I remembered enough from Metatron's boasting to know what really powers Heaven.”

Castiel frowned and tried to sit up, hiding the grimace of pain when Sam scooted him up the bed. At least the pain was finally fading, and he could feel the tiny spark of his grace growing stronger. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Anael shook her head. “Souls. Human souls. You're the one who popped Purgatory for your grudge match with Raphael, surely you understand the raw power of human souls.”

“But the souls in Heaven...” Sam began.

“It's not like she needs to plug them in,” Anael explained. “There's so many up there that the radiation alone is enough to keep the place running for a few eternities.”

“Then what does she need Cas's grace for?” Dean asked. He'd leaned back against the bed, though his hand was on Castiel's blanket-covered knee. Sam's was on Castiel's shoulder, and though his body was still a little sensitive this physical evidence of the brothers' affection was very welcome.

“Probably powering herself up, with a side order of torturing her worst enemy,” Anael huffed out a sigh and tossed her hair back. “Well, if that's all you needed?”

“Yeah, I'll walk you out,” Sam offered, patting Castiel on the shoulder before following Anael out of the infirmary.

Castiel was quiet, staring down at his hands. All of that...the torture, the penance, the _harvesting.._.all for her petty satisfaction?

“Hey,” Dean patted his knee, twisting on the bed so he was facing Castiel. “Hey, man, it's okay.”

Castiel shook his head, wrapping his arms around his bare torso. “She took everything.”

His grace, until he was so weary and exhausted he'd collapsed. His wings, tearing out old and new feathers to leave the limbs twisted and bare for her own amusement.

“How much more can she take?” he asked, not even noticing the tears until Dean had gently gathered him close.

“I'm gonna stab that bitch,” the Winchester promised. “I'll kill her before she touches you again.”

Castiel held on, fingers digging into his friend's shoulders. He couldn't tell if he was crying more from pain or shame, or even fear, but Dean didn't seem to mind. The hunter just held him close, one hand carding through his hair, until Castiel's sobs slowed as his exhausted mind begged for rest.

“Dean?” he called, his voice scratchy, as the hunter lowered him down and pulled the blankets up.

“Hey, I'm only halfway through this,” Dean replied, holding up a battered copy of a novel Castiel hadn't noticed before. He pulled a chair closer to the bed, so he could prop his feet up near Castiel's knees, sitting close enough that if Castiel reached out he could touch the hunter's leg. “But, uh, don't spoil the ending.”

Castiel nodded, curling up on his side, his hands close to Dean's leg but not touching. Sam returned a few minutes later, and after some light-hearted bickering the younger Winchester pulled up a chair on Castiel's other side and pulled out his own book (though this one was a heavy tome, and Dean teased him about using Castiel's sleeping body to hold research notes).

Even through the teasing, Castiel could feel the love surrounding him. And this time, when he slept he didn't dream of Heaven. Just of home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not too sure about the ending, but I wanted it to have some sense of hope. Oh well.
> 
> I made up the part about human souls powering Heaven. It never made sense to me that it was angels, with how many times the show has brought up how powerful souls are.
> 
> Next time: Humiliation (Monologue)
> 
> Seven days left!


	25. Humiliation (Monologue)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, it's a little short. Between fibro, snooty customers, and cleaning up after a sick kitty it's been a long day.

“Well, what do we have here?” the demon gloated, pacing back and forth in front of its three captives. “The famous Winchesters and their little angel...who would have thought they'd all walk right into my trap?”

Sam fought against the hands holding him down, forcing him to kneel in front of the demon. Not even a big shot like Crowley, this one was practically Stunt Demon Number Eight. It had only won the fight through sheer numbers, even after the Winchesters and Cas left meatsuit after meatsuit smoking on the floor.

“What do we do with you?” it mused, stopping to twirl its fingers in Sam's hair. “Crowley's gone, no one's taking his place...and this body of yours is quite attractive.”

“You get your damn hands off him!” Dean yelled. The demon just gestured, and one of the others holding Dean twisted his arm until it snapped and Dean screamed.

“And you,” the demon in charge stopped in front of Cas, tipping a finger under his chin to force his head up. “So many stories about you, so many of my kind out for your blood. I wonder if I could put you up for sale?”

“Be the last thing you do,” Dean gasped. The demon gestured again, and the one who'd broken Dean's arm punched him right above the break, leaving the older Winchester practically breathless with pain.

“I think I should keep you,” the demon said, crouching in front of Cas to run slender fingers down his cheek. “Yes, you'd make a nice pet. And who wouldn't bow to the demon who conquered an angel? Why, they might even crown me _king_.” It said this last bit with a sneer in Sam's direction.

“If you lay a finger on him,” Sam began.

“Oh, I won't,” the demon stood and stalked over to Sam, towering over the Winchester and forcing his head back. “But I will lay my fingers on you, unless he bows to me.”

Sam shuddered, trying to twist away from the hand stroking the side of his face. “You want him to bow?”

“Can you think of anything more delicious? An angel, lowering its halo and tarnishing its wings to serve a demon. Why, I can't think of anything more fitting.” It turned away, narrowing its focus on Cas. “Bow to me, bend your head in servility, and I might even let these two go.”

“Be the...last mistake...you'll ever make,” Dean panted. Sam silently wished his brother would just shut up and stop attracting the demons' wrath, as without even a word from their leader the demons holding Dean shoved him to the floor and kicked and beat until his cries were silenced.

“Well?” the demon crouched by Cas again, running its fingers down the front of his shirt. “Little Sam is next, you know,” it added, turning Cas's face until his eyes met Sam's. “I know a few minor lords who would love a few millennia with Lucifer's vessel.

Sam tried to shake his head, but the demons held him fast. There had to be a way out, something that didn't involve Cas humiliating himself to some low-class demon.

The demon grinned and leaned in close to whisper in Cas's ear, and whatever the angel was hearing made him recoil and fight against the hands holding him. The demon laughed, walking back out to the center of the room and beckoning the others to drag Castiel to him. “Behold!” it announced. “The once-might angel of the lord, brought low and made humble here in this place!”

They released Cas and shoved him forward, the angel stumbling over one of the dead meatsuits. Cas straightened himself, tugging his clothes back into place, and glared at his tormentor. The demon chuckled and snapped, and the ones holding Sam forced him flat on the ground, his own angel blade poised over his fingers.

“I will make him eat them,” the demon promised. “His brother is next. Piece by piece, until they only have enough body to stay alive and enough mind to curse you. You will live long enough to see these two reduced to nothing more than lumps of flesh unless you _bow to me!_”

Castiel managed to catch Sam's gaze, his eyes heavy with sorrow. The hunter tried to shake his head but the angel had already turned back. “You'll let them leave?” he asked.

The demon clapped its hands and rubbed them together. “Oh, I'll dump them someplace nice. I'll even leave them on the North American continent, though not the same place we caught you, naturally.”

The angel hesitated, then took a step toward the demon and sank to one knee. The demon chortled in glee and marched forward to plant his hand on Castiel's head. “As I said!” it shouted. “How the mighty are brought...”

Cas grabbed it wrist and twisted as he stood, using his own upward momentum to send the demon sprawling. It barely had time for a squawk of surprise before the angel's hand was on its forehead, burning the putrid essence out.

One of the demons holding Sam gave a shout and released the hunter to charge, but Cas swiftly tugged an angel blade free from the meatsuit he'd stepped over and flipped it to Sam before meeting the demon's charge and smiting it.

Sam slammed the blade home in the demon above him, using the surprise of the moment to kick the other one aside. He found a second blade in the dead demon's belt and pulled it free, rolling to avoid the third demon's attack before stabbing it in the foot.

Across the room, a shout of rage heralded Dean's return to consciousness as Cas healed his friend's wounds, and the older hunter soon found a blade of his own to fight back at the demons who were now fleeing. Sam let them run, resting his hands on his knees to catch his breath, and looked up as Dean and Cas picked their way across the room to join him. “That was quite the plan, Cas,” he said.

The angel looked nonplussed, merely accepting his blade back from Sam and stowing it in his sleeve. “Never let them monologue.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Abandoned (Baby)


	26. Abandoned (Baby)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is late, wind storm knocked out the internet and I only managed to get online long enough by tethering to my phone (which sucks up my data usage, so I can't reply to comments until later). Tonight's chapter should post with no problem.

Castiel's phone rang, breaking the silence of his truck. He barely looked at the screen before pressing the phone to his face. “Sam?”

“We found him,” the younger Winchester said, exhaustion coloring his voice. “At least, we found the last place he was.”

“I'm on my way.”

Sam had been against his brother going out on his own in the first place, but with Sam laid up with a broken knee and Castiel out of state on his own mission the older Winchester had been determined. It was supposed to be a simple salt and burn, but that was three days ago. When Dean had failed to report in for twenty-four hours, Castiel had already returned to the bunker and healed Sam's knee, and the two simply headed out to look for their missing brother.

Castiel pulled into the parking lot of an abandoned motel, guiding his truck into the space next to the car Sam was leaning against. The hunter stood up, some of the exhaustion in his face easing as the angel approached him.

“Cas,” Sam clapped one hand to the angel's shoulder in greeting. “Thanks for getting here so quickly.”

“Of course,” Castiel nodded. “What did you find?”

“Ah, his car,” Sam beckoned and lead the way around the car he'd been leaning against to the Impala. It (She, Dean would say, then pat the steering wheel and apologize) was sitting abandoned at the end of the lot, a yellow spiderweb of pollen dusting its (her) exterior.

“Why would he be here?” Castiel wondered, scraping some of the pollen away to peer into the car's interior. There were no obvious signs that Dean had not left his car intentionally, it (she) was just empty.

“I'm not sure,” Sam shook his head. “I'm starting to think this is more than a simple salt and burn.”

Castiel nodded in agreement, following the dilapidated sidewalk to the empty hotel lobby. “Do you know what he was looking for here?”

“Well, there were a few mysterious deaths,” Sam pulled out his phone, scrolling through it for a few seconds. “They all pointed to the ghost of one of the town's founders but he was cremated. Cas. Do you think someone could be faking ghost attacks?”

The angel frowned and studied the sheriff's notice tacked to the boarded up door to the lobby. “For what purpose?”

Sam shrugged. “I'll check on the victims again, maybe we missed a connection. Maybe you could look for omens?”

Castiel paused before following Sam, taking one more look around the nearly empty parking lot. There was something more to the case, and he had a feeling it would take more than some research to uncover the truth.

. . .

“See?” the man whispered. “They're walking away now. They didn't even know you were here.”

Dean tried to jerk away from the hand on his chin but the ropes held steady. His hands, bound at the wrist and lashed to an overhead beam, had long ago lost all feeling, and the bastard holding him prisoner hadn't even bothered to reset his dislocated shoulder.

“I would have thought your precious little brother and that adorable angel would have sensed your presence,” the man continued, coming around to Dean's other side. “What should I do for them, hmm? Maybe a quick, easy death like the Allen woman...or would you rather have a roommate?”

The hunter tried to turn his head, but the witch just gave a cruel laugh. “We could have so much fun, if you just cooperate.”

Dean tried to work up a mouthful of spit, but the witch was barely giving him enough water to stay alive. “Bite me,” he hissed through dry, cracked lips.

With a cackle the witch released him, leaving Dean swinging and fighting to get his feet under him enough to save injured shoulder the strain. “Not yet, handsome. I work best with an audience.”

. . .

“I don't think there is any demonic activity in the surrounding five counties,” Castiel announced, dropping a paper on the little motel table with a sense of finality.

Sam barely looked up from his laptop, still trying to chase down one possible connection between victim three (Tracy Allen) and victim four (Joshua Campbell). “So it's not demonic.”

“Or angelic, or ghoulish, or vampiric, or lycanthropic...”

“Okay, Cas, okay,” Sam double-checked another article and blew out a long breath. “The only connection these people seem to have is that they live in this town. They shop at the supermarket, get the daily newspaper, stuff like that. Nothing that could single them out as victims. It's almost like they're random.”

Cas was staring out the motel window, brow furrowed in deep thought. “We should go back to the abandoned hotel,” he said after a few minutes.

“Yeah,” Sam sighed and closed his laptop, reaching for his jacket. “Dean would kill me if I left his car.”

“No, I can't shake the sense that there's something there.”

At that, Sam sat forward in his seat a little. “Something like what? Is Dean there? Can you sense him?”

“No,” Cas shook his head. “I can't sense either of you, unless I'm close enough to touch your souls. “But I could sense something in that building. Something dark.”

“Well, let's check it out,” Sam said, standing up. “Even if Dean isn't there, it could be what killed those other people.”

“They are likely the same thing.”

Sam managed a wry chuckle at that. That was the hunter's life, of course.

. .

Dean started to drift off to sleep but pulled himself awake with a shudder. The last thing he wanted was to be more vulnerable in front of this...thing.

The man claimed to be a witch of an ancient Babylonian lineage. Had said his name was too difficult to pronounce, but that he preferred to be called Lear (like the Shakespeare play, not like the looks he kept giving Dean).

So far, Dean couldn't figure out why he'd been taken prisoner. Lear didn't seem to want to kill him yet, wasn't bragging about offering him to any dark masters, didn't have a posse of demons on speed dial...it was as though the witch had set a trap for hunters just to see if he could catch one.

“They're back!” Lear practically slithered up to Dean, one hand stroking the hunter's cheek. “I didn't think they'd be back so soon.”

The plywood covering the motel lobby's windows and doors had all been enchanted so it acted like a two-way mirror. On the outside, Sam and Cas would only see that the hotel was boarded up, but from the inside Dean and Lear could see everything.

Sam and Castiel pulled up in the angel's crappy brown truck (Dean had offered him any vehicle in the bunker, but that seemed to offend Cas as he insisted he could procure a vehicle on his own. Angels. Who knew they were so stubborn?). He couldn't hear them through the plywood, but he watched them circle the motel, discussing something heatedly while Sam flicked through his phone.

The younger Winchester shook his head and turned toward the Impala (poor Baby, left out there in the weather with Dean just a few yards away and unable to help her), but Cas kept staring at the boarded up front door.

Lear chuckled in Dean's ear. “Do you think he knows? Would he come for you if he did? You know I'm prepared to take care of an angel.”

Dean twisted his head away, trying not to shudder. He'd had almost three days to listen to Lear's plans for the rest of Dean's family, including detailed descriptions of the various anti-angel magics the Babylonians had developed.

Then Cas turned away from the door. Dean was torn between relief and disappointment, both feelings turning into disgust as Lear ran a hand down Dean's back and turned away to work on the complicated sigil he was drawing on the floor around the trapped hunter.

. . .

Castiel watched Sam try the key in the Impala, only to slam the palm of his hand against the car's steering wheel in frustration. “Dean's gonna kill me.”

The angel stared around the parking lot impassively. He was used to colloquialisms like this by now—what Sam meant was that Dean would be angry that his beloved car was not in working order and pretend like it was Sam's fault.

“Well, let's check out another place on his list,” Sam said, locking the car back up. “We'll have to come back and get her towed to our hotel.”

Castiel let the hunter walk past him, but stopped to rest a hand on the Impala's hood for a moment. Dean had once asked, as a joke, if his angel mojo could extend to fixing the car, but that was beyond his abilities. Still, though he didn't understand the brothers' personification of the Impala, he himself did find he had a certain sentimental affection for the vehicle.

“Cas!” Sam was waiting by the truck, brow furrowed, phone held up. “I don't want to lose the daylight.”

The angel walked back to the truck, casting another long, calculating stare at the motel. Something wasn't right. The motel seemed empty beyond the plywood covering its doors and windows, but it was more like something was _telling_ him it was empty rather than it truly being empty.

“I don't know what you keep staring at,” Sam complained, as they backed away from the building. “It's just a bunch of old, stained lumber.”

Castiel's head snapped around to stare at the motel. That wasn't right. The boards were practically new, in fact they stood out against the rest of the motel's dingy appearance. “Sam? You said the boards over the windows were stained?”

“Yeah,” Sam glanced at Castiel then back at the hotel. “Probably put in the same time the place was shut down. Why, is something wrong?”

Without replying, Castiel threw his truck back into drive and slammed down on the gas pedal. Sam yelped, bracing himself against the console and door, and tried to ask Castiel what he was doing but the angel was too focused to answer.

The truck punched through the boarded-up doors of the motel...and straight into a nightmare.

Inside the old lobby, candles covered every flat surface to cast the whole room in a hellish red. There were odd symbols painted on the walls, and the plywood covering the other windows, that were the rusty color of long-dried blood. The check-in counter had been turned into a crude altar, with an embroidered black cloth spread over it and lumps of some kind of matter, organs perhaps, lined up in a neat row.

And at the center of it all was Dean. He was hanging from a chain attached to an exposed beam in the ceiling, his feet barely scraping the floor, an elaborate summoning sigil half-painted below him. His clothes seemed whole, but were filthy and bloodstained, and his face was bruised. A witch stood just behind him, the witch's soul darkened and twisted by centuries of dark magic.

“Didn't expect that,” the witch snarled. He was holding a short dagger, though at least he wasn't trying to use the older Winchester as a hostage.

Castiel let his angel blade slip into his hand and stalked toward the witch, only to be brought to a halt as the man held up a hand and chanted a short string of words. The grace inside Castiel spasmed at the contact of the old magic, and he was rooted to the spot while the witch advanced on him with a manic grin.

Dean was thrashing in his bonds, his cracked voice trying to get the witch's attention.

As the witch turned back to laugh at Dean's helpless fury, he managed to make the worst mistake of the rest of his life.

He forgot about Sam Winchester.

The younger man was out of the truck, movement more fluid that his large frame suggested, handgun coming around to bear on the witch. Sam squeezed off shot after shot—they weren't witch-killing bullets, Castiel knew. But they were enough to break the witch's concentration.

Freed from the spell, Castiel stormed forward and slide his blade up into the witch's body, aiming for the heart then twisting to the right to pierce the lung as well. The witch coughed and shrieked, grabbing at the blade even as blood poured out of his mouth. But Castiel held on dispassionately, watching the body shrivel up a the magics that had sustained it for so many centuries withered away.

“Dean! Cas, gimme a hand!”

Castiel let the withered husk of the witch drop to the ground and helped Sam ease his brother off of the hook. While Sam cut through the ropes Cas sent a gentle pulse of healing energy through Dean, though it wasn't quite enough to treat the older Winchester's mild dehydration and malnourishment.

Dean caught Castiel's arm, his other arm draped around Sam's shoulders. “Thanks,” he whispered, swallowing against the dryness in his throat with a grimace.

“Let's get out of here,” Sam suggested, still supporting his brother as he lead the way back to the truck. Dean pulled back as they reached the door refusing to take another step.

“Not without my Baby,” he protested, his voice growing a little stronger.

Sam huffed in exasperation. “The car won't start, Dean. We can come back.”

“I'm not leaving her.”

Sam rolled his eyes to Castiel for help, but the angel turned to the symbols in the walls as though they were more fascinating than this particular sibling exchange.

They weren't, of course. The ancient Babylonians had many complex summoning rituals for all manner of creatures, but this witch had just gone for the strongest and most bloodthirsty. It likely would have consumed the witch upon a successful summoning.

Dean had won out, and Sam had half-dragged him over to the Impala, if only to prove that the car wouldn't start.

The older Winchester slid behind the wheel, stopping for a moment to let his hands run over the familiar interior of the car. He inserted his key into the ignition and turned, and the car started up without a protest.

Sam threw his hands up. “I give up!” he announced. “Have it your way, Dean, I'm riding with Cas!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Ransom (Jack)


	27. Ransom (Jack)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nope, still no internet at home! Better than no water or power, though.

The cargo van jolted over a set of railroad tracks, sending Jack bumping against the crates of supplies. His wrists, bound together with zip ties, were tied to a waist-high grab bar next to his head.

“Don't look at me like that,” Donovan said. One of the hunters from the apocalypse world, Donovan had made contact with another hunters' group and convinced Jack that his new friends would be an asset to the team in the bunker.

It had been a trap, of course.

“What do you want?” Jack demanded. They'd taken his weapons and phone, even his shoes, and shoved him in the back of this van with Donovan.

“The Winchesters,” Donovan scratched his neck as he spoke. “That bunker of theirs has some pretty good hardward.”

Jack tilted his head, eyes narrowing. “We told you that you could use what you needed.”

“That's the thing, see, these guys...they know people who'll pay top dollar for that stuff. And not just in ones and twos, like you've been handing out, we're talking by the crate load.”

“So you took me for ransom?”

Donovan flinched, glancing up to the front of the van. “Look, kid, I like you. I do. But we're all stuck here now, and if I can't get back to my world I want to make the best of this one.”

“But we're trying to find a way!” Jack jerked against the ties, ignoring the sting as the plastic rubbed against the raw spots on his wrists. “There has to be another way to open the rift, don't do this.”

The van slowed to a stop. Donovan glanced toward the front again, then stood up and readied his weapon. “Sorry, Jack. It's nothing personal.”

“It feels personal,” Jack grumbled as one of Donovan's companions pulled open the door. He sliced through the rope holding Jack's bound wrists to the bar in the van and tugged him outside.

“So this is the boy?” another man, this one only a few inches shorter than Jack with a round, bald head held his hands out. “He doesn't look like much.”

“You should've seen him all juiced up,” Donovan said, resting one hand on Jack's shoulder to push him forward. “Don't worry, he's still their mascot or something. They'll pay top dollar to get him back.”

“I hope so,” the bald man said, walking up to look Jack up and down. “Name's Cooper. I hear your boys have some tech they might be willing to part with?”

Jack clamped his lips closed and looked away. Cooper's fist struck him in the side of the face, knocking him into Donovan.

“You said you wouldn't hurt him!” Donovan protested.

“And you said he'd cooperate,” Cooper sneered. “Don't waste my time, Donovan.”

“Look, here's his phone,” Donovan held out Jack's phone, the screen cracked from when Donovan and his partners had jumped Jack. “I disabled the GPS on it, you can call the Winchesters and see for yourself.”

Cooper took the phone and jerked his head at Jack. Two of the other men, all wearing tactical gear including face masks, grabbed Jack by the arms and pulled him away.

Jack could only watch as Cooper dialed one of the Winchesters' phone numbers, then put the phone on speaker.

“Jack? The hell you been?”

That was Dean. Jack started to call out but a gloved hand clapped over his mouth.

“I'm afraid little Jackie isn't here,” Cooper said. “He's staying with a few friends of mine while we make some business arrangement.”

Dean was already swearing and promising vengeance, Cooper just held the phone out with a disgusted expression for a few moments. “Temper, temper, Mr. Winchester. Is that any way to speak to a business partner?”

“You listen to me...”

“Dean!” Sam's voice replaced his brother's on the phone. “Let me talk to Jack, then we can deal.”

“Ooh, sorry,” Cooper glanced over at Jack, his face twisted in an imitation of sympathy. “Can't have you boys giving each other secret signals.”

“Then how do we even know you have him? You could have stolen his phone or copied his SIM. He could even be dead.”

Cooper tilted his head to one side. “True.”

He nodded at the thugs holding Jack. The one covering his mouth removed his hand just as the other planted a fist in Jack's stomach. Jack let out a yelp but bit back any further sounds. Cooper sighed and waved his free hand and the pummeling continued, until Jack finally cried out in pain and the bald man held his hand up to stop.

“You son of a bitch.” Dean was back on the phone. “You lay another finger on him and I will break them off one by one, you hear me?”

“Temper again,” Cooper tutted. “I haven't touched the dear boy, of course. But you know I can.”

“Do you want to know what I know?” Sam's voice came back on the phone.

“Oh, of course, by all means.”

“You're at approximately 39.9 latitude by -98.6 longitude. Nearest town is Pawnee. You have three cargo vans, one white and two black, and you're just off the access road to the back of your brother-in-law's ranch.”

Cooper's mouth fell open and he stared at the phone, but Sam wasn't finished.

“Your first name is Ethan, you were a hunter until you botched a ghoul case and shot a little girl by mistake. Since then you've done everything you could to line your own pockets. You're a disgrace.”

“How dare you!” Cooper seemed to have some of his voice back, but he could barely get a word in.

“You're in so deep with another hunter named McGillvery that your only hope right now is to get a good stash of stuff to buy him off so you can disappear again. You've already got a ticket to Cancun, but the last thing you want is an angry hunter on your trail. So you can see why pissing off a Winchester was a bad idea.”

“Look here-”

“But I know one more thing that you don't,” Sam asked. Jack tilted his head, sure he could hear a familiar engine coming closer down the access road. “We were behind you the entire time.”

The Impala crested the small incline that lead to Cooper's meeting place, and pandemonium broke loose. Cooper was yelling at his men to take positions and open fire, Donovan had dropped his gun and headed for the brush by the side of the road, and one of the men holding Jack was pulling him toward the parked vans.

Jack slammed the back of his head into the guard's face, hearing the masked man cry out in pain as his nose broke. He spun around and kneed the man in the groin, not waiting to see if the man doubled over in pain before turning to race for the Impala.

Dean spun the car in a half-circle, and the doors on the passenger side opened for Sam and Castiel to jump out. Sam took up a firing position behind the door while Cas sprinted toward Jack.

“Are you all right?” the angel asked, easily snapping the plastic ties.

Jack nodded. “I'm sorry.”

“It wasn't your fault,” Cas wrapped one of his hands around one of Jack's raw wrists, and Jack could feel all the little bumps and bruises he'd gotten fade away. “Let's go.”

Castiel tucked Jack close behind him, shielding him from any gunfire, and they ran back to the Impala to duck behind the door beside Sam. “Jack?” the taller man asked.

“I'm sorry, Sam.”

“Not your fault, Jack,” Sam leaned out, picking out a few shots to disable one of the vans. “Dean!”

“All right, fellas!”

The clearing was suddenly quiet, and when Jack looked across the car to Dean he realized why. The older Winchester had the grenade launched propped against one shoulder, aimed directly at the van Cooper had taken shelter behind. “This is how it's gonna go!” Dean announced. “We're taking the kid and leaving, and I don't fire this unless you give me a reason to.

“But let me tell you. You touch the kid again, I kill you. You come near him, I kill you. Hell, if I even think you've thought about thinking about him? I kill you. Got it?”

Sam shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I don't think anyone got that,” he muttered to Jack and Cas.

“This isn't over, Winchester!” Cooper called from behind the van.

“Oh, it isn't?” Dean's grin was almost manic. “Guess you'll be needing this!”

Cas wrapped himself around Jack to shield him from the heat of the blast.

“Dean!” Sam coughed, climbing back in the car. “I thought you weren't going to shoot it!”

“What? I didn't aim _at_ him, just _near_ him.”

Jack glanced over as he slipped in to the Impala's backseat. Sure enough, it looked like Cooper and at least some of his men were still alive, just frantically trying to extinguish the smoking mess of one of their vans.

“Hey, they're the ones who messed with a Winchester,” Dean said, glancing up at Jack in the rearview mirror. “Right, kid?”

Jack settled back in the seat, suddenly exhausted. “Right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next time: Beaten (Cas)


	28. Beaten (Cas)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's some major Cas whump in this chapter. See if you can figure out the hinky ritual before the end.

The hood over his head, combined with the angel cuffs on his wrists, blocked out every sensation except sound as Castiel was lead deeper and deeper into the forest.

Word had gotten around, it seemed. There was an angel near Lebanon Kansas, when those were rare to find. And there were still enough practitioners of the old blood magics that he was apparently worth a great deal.

“As promised, Ophelia,” his captor shoved Castiel forward, an exposed tree root tripping him.

“Bind him to the altar,” a woman commanded—presumably Ophelia.

“Wait,” Castiel tried to protest, though his voice was muffled by the sack. “You don't want this. Whatever you want to summon with my blood, it won't be worth the cost.”

“Oh, I don't think so,” Ophelia nearly loomed over him as strong hands bound his arms to a section of rough board fencing. His hood was pulled off, and he found himself look up into her face, dark eyes glittering, skin so pale it was nearly translucent. “The ones I've communed with are ecstatic about seeing you again.”

Castiel twisted, trying to follow her progress as she walked behind him, but one of the men who'd tied him to the altar forced his head around and cut straight through his clothing, neck to waist, peeling it open to lay his back bare.

“To the darkness and hunger, I offer this sacrifice of blood!” Ophelia intoned, then the whistle of a whip broke the air just before the metal tips on the braided lashes broke the skin of his back.

. . .

Again and again, she whipped him until his blood soaked through his waistband and flowed down his legs. Then he was hauled off the altar and turned around, his torn and bloody back pressed into the rough wood.

“To the darkness and hunger, I offer this sacrifice of agony!”

One of the men approached, a heavy hammer and a railroad spike in his hand. Castiel fought against the ropes that held him, kicking out to knock the spike away. A burst of adrenaline overcame the pain for a moment, and he managed to snap the plank of the altar he was bound to.

Ophelia shrieked and lashed out again, the whip catching Castiel across the face. The tips of the whip were celestial alloy dipped in demon blood, particularly unpleasant.

The other man, the one who didn't have the railroad spike, charged Castiel with a roar and tackled him to the ground, the impact jarring the wounds in his back and making him cry out in pain. The man pummeled his face and chest, his considerable strength heightened by Enochian brass knuckles.

(Though Castiel did not understand how a witch could have gotten hold of such things, as the Men of Letters weren't free with their knowledge and technology.)

One eye nearly swollen shut, and several ribs bruised if not broken, Castiel was finally overpowered and his wrists pinned together, the anti-angel cuffs snapping back around them.

“We'll have to improvise,” Ophelia complained. “We can't crucify him with his hands together. Just put him on the hook, I'll see what we can do about the ritual.

Castiel was hauled to his feet, the world graying out a little as his body sang with pain, and the witch's assistant manhandled him over to a post where a hook jutted out just high enough that Castiel would have to stretch to stay on his feet.

“I think we could still find a way to nail you up.” the man sneered in his ear, swiftly cutting away the tattered remains of Castiel's shirt and coat. “The mistress'll figure it out, and she'll bring our masters back.”

They left him hanging, the position agonizing on his injured ribs, the rough wood of the post digging into his back whenever he tried to rest his aching legs. He leaned back to try to see the sky through the break in the clearing, maybe find a hint of his Father's creation out there, but the moon was new and the clouds were heavy. The only light in the clearing was from the fire near the center, and Castiel tried not to look at it after he'd noticed the pokers and branding iron resting in the coals.

“I have it!” Ophelia announced. “The sacrifice of agony has to represent death but not be death itself. Winston?”

The first man, the one who'd been holding the hammer and spike, unfolded his arms with a lazy grin. “Demon blood's pretty bad for an angel,” he offered. “We got a whole jar of that.”

Ophelia squealed with delight, as Winston picked up a jar with a dark red liquid.

Castiel clamped his mouth shut and turned away, but the second man was right beside him, clamping one hand around his jaw and forcing him to face Winston.

The unnamed man planted a fist in Castiel's stomach, then in his broken ribs, over and over until the angel gasped in pain and Winston could wedge the edge of the jar between his lips.

Castiel tried to turn away, to force the blood out, to not swallow, but his captors were relentless. The blood in the jar seemed endless as the second man beat him, until he nearly choked on the noxious liquid and was forced to swallow.

“To the darkness and hunger, I offer this sacrifice of agony!” Ophelia practically crowed, and now Castiel could see she had five fat candles, two of them now lit on an altar cloth painted with a Nordic compass.

He writhed and coughed, vomiting up a mouthful of the demon blood before Winston clapped a hand over his mouth. “Keep it in,” the man hissed.

“The sacrifice of flesh and sacrifice of bone should be easy,” Ophelia commented. “You wanted to do that, right, Phillips?”

The second man, Phillips, leered into Castiel's face. “I think I've had a good practice run,” he whispered, running the back of his hand down the angel's face so that the Enochian knuckles brushed over the bruises and split skin.

“Well, one at a time,” Ophelia said breezily. “Don't forget the hammer.”

Phillips grinned, tugging Castiel's wrists off the hook and spinning him around so he was face-first in the dirt. The man straddled him, knees on either side of the angel's hips, and Castiel felt the flat of a knife blade slide gently along the wounds on his back.

“Taking the flesh first,” Phillips called, then the knife dug into the wounds left by the whip and the world went dark around him.

. . .

He came to when the hammer shattered his ankle. Castiel cried out and tried to fight off the hands holding him down, but Winston had pinned his arms beneath one knee and had one broad palm resting over two of his broken ribs.

“To the darkness and hunger, I offer this sacrifice of bone.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw the fourth candle flare to life, and Ophelia gave a little happy sigh.

She knelt beside him, carding her fingers through his hair. “You've given us such a gift, Castiel. I never would have thought I could get an angel, much less the one they want! My masters will return and all will be as it should again.”

Ophelia stood up and walked to the fire, pulling out the branding iron Castiel had seen before. Now he could see that its tip was a Vegvisir, a Nordic compass.

The symbol of Purgatory.

They were summoning the Leviathan.

“Whatever you're doing,” he gasped out. “It's not what you want. They're not like that.”

“My masters are the darkness and hunger and the champions of all who stand against the ways of this world,” Ophelia declared. “They will bless me for releasing them, and doubly so for using you.”

No. He twisted against the hands holding him, though his wounds and the demon blood had weakened him. Ophelia was drawing closer, the brand held high in her hands.

“To the darkness and hunger, I offer this sacrifice of covenant!”

“No!”

A shot pierced the night air, and Ophelia toppled sideways with a scream. Castiel could hear footsteps thundering into the clearing, the familiar shouts of his brothers as they came to his rescue.

“Sam!” Castiel craned his neck to see the younger Winchester closest to the altar. “The candles! You have to break the altar!”

Ophelia shrieked, climbing to her knees with the brand in hand and falling forward to drive the hot metal into Castiel's skin. He arched against it and screamed as the heat and pain and remnants of the spell tore through his body, but Sam had been fast enough.

The little wooden altar had been kicked apart, candles scattered across the clearing.

The witch charged Sam, hands raised in claws, but her body jerked as the hunter fired several more rounds into her body.

“Cas!” Dean slid to his knees beside the angel, Winston and Phillips' bodies behind him. “Dammit, what did she do to you?”

“Leviathan,” Castiel grunted as he was eased up to lean against Dean's shoulder. “Sh-she wanted...wanted....”

“Hey, slow down,” Sam was there, too, tugging his flannel shirt off to wrap around Castiel like a blanket. “Dean, we've gotta get him out of here. That burn on its own is bad news, I think she had holy oil on the brand.”

“Yeah, Cas, can you stand?”

The angel nodded, though his body had started shaking as the realization of what had almost happened coursed through him.

He let Dean pull him to his feet, but his knees collapsed and the hunter caught him, swearing. “Sammy, I think his foot's broken, see?”

“A-ankle,” Castiel stammered.

Dean swore again. “Sammy, get the car as close as you can.”

Castiel heard the keys being tossed to the younger Winchester, but he was so focused on trying to keep himself upright he was surprised when Dean tried to lower them both to the ground.

“Hey, man, just relax,” Dean rubbed Castiel's arm, encouraging him to lean into the hunter. “You've been beaten half to shit and I think you're going into shock. Leviathans, man. That's messed up.”

He rested his head against Dean's shoulder, trying to find a comfortable position that wasn't pushing or pulling on any wounds. The cuffs around his wrists had torn his skin raw, and he was a little glad the Winchesters weren't trying to get them off just yet.

There would be time for that, when they were safe.

“Here she comes,” Dean murmured as the Impala's headlights cut through the darkness. “Don't worry, buddy, we'll get you home.”

Castiel just nodded, letting the Winchesters lift him up and tuck him in the backseat, Sam following to work on the cuffs and do some preliminary first aide as Dean slid behind the wheel to take them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Liberties were taken, but that totally is the symbol they use to open purgatory in the show. I've had a half-baked idea about using Hel unleashing an army of draugr as an interesting story, with Eve not really being the queen of purgatory but just the mother of monsters, with it actually being Hel as in the daughter of Loki (real Loki, unfortunately, not Gabriel). Also, that the physical forms taken in purgatory are manifestations of the beings power, so when you get killed that power dissipates and you have to literally pull yourself back together. Anyway! None of this actually has to do with the story, I just don't have anyone who'll listen to my theories, haha.
> 
> Next time: Numb (Dean)


	29. Numb (Dean)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have battled the plague to bring you tonight's tale.
> 
> That and a checkup appointment for my cat. He's doing better, but not great just yet, but at least we have a whole month between visits this time, and I can start giving him some of his favorite foods again to help his appetite.

“Sammy! Take the bridge! Take the bridge!”

Sam stumbled to an awkward stop at the top of the embankment, his brother already down and halfway across the frozen river. “I thought we were sticking to the plan,” he grumbled, turning to run through the snow to the old covered bridge. 

They'd thought it was a Woman in White, when they heard the stories about the vanishing hitchhiker, but it turned out to be a bound spirit. A local mechanic had been planting coins in the cars of men he viewed as his rivals, and these coins would draw the spirit to the victims.

The mechanic, a man named Terry, had made the mistake of leaving a coin in the Impala, which had lead the hunters right back to him.

“Terry!” Sam thundered across the bridge, long legs easily avoiding the gaps in the ancient planks. “It doesn't have to end like this!”

“Yes it does!” Dean shouted from the ice, where he was sliding along just a few yards behind the mechanic. “Nobody touches my Baby!”

Sam groaned, vaulting over the railing at the end of the bridge to run along the opposite side of the river. Terry was running upstream, across the thick ice, but on this side the embankment lowered until it was only a few feet above the river while on the far side the road climbed up the foothills making it impossible to reach the roadway without climbing gear.

His foot hit a rock and Sam stumbled, cursing under his breath. Of course, the spirit just had to strike while they were still in the fed threads. These shoes had no traction at the best of times—and chasing a murderous wannabe necromancer up a frozen river in the dead of night was not the best of times.

Sam drew up parallel with Terry, despite the difficult terrain, and started looking for a safe path down to the river. The mechanic stared up at him, wide-eyed, then dug into his pocket.

“Terry, no!” Sam scrambled down the bank, feet nearly shooting out from under him as he hit the ice.

Terry gave a wide grin and flipped a coin over his shoulder. It slid on the ice, and though his brother tried to skid to a stop the coin tapped his foot.

The result was almost instantaneous. The ice beneath Dean's feet erupted as the spirit answered its master's call, ghostly arms wrapping around Dean's waist to pull him into the icy river.

Sam tugged his coat off, sliding down the ice to the break where his brother had disappeared. He could hear Terry's footsteps fading into the distance, but that was the furthest thing from his mind.

He knew a lot of hunters. Terry wouldn't get far.

“Dean?” It was dark, but at least the moon was high and lit the ice with a wintery glow that would otherwise have been quite peaceful. Now, though, it was just a smooth, pitiless surface broken here and there by debris that had frozen into the river.

Thinking fast, Sam dug in his pocket for a couple of salt rounds he'd kept in case of ghost activity and dropped them into the water. Terry had been upstream, hopefully the spirit had tried to take Dean further away downstream and the salt would be enough to disrupt the ghost's form.

“Come on, come on,” Sam patted the ice, flashing his light up and down the frozen river for any sign of his brother.

Then he heard something slam against the ice, just a few feet to his left. Sam scooting along, banging his fist in the spot he thought he'd heard the noise.

An answering bang. Then two. Then five. Their father had drilled that pattern into their heads for emergencies. Sam yanked his pistol free and slammed the butt into the ice, over and over. Nearly heedless of his own safety, he chipped away until a crack spiderwebbed out from where he'd been striking, then he abandoned the pistol in favor of breaking away chunks of ice with his bare hands.

A hand shot up out of the water, flailing for something to hold onto, and Sam grabbed his brother's wrist with a cry of relief. He picked up the pistol again and kept knocking ice out of the way, bracing himself as best as he could against the frozen surface of the river as he hauled Dean bodily out of the water.

Sam could feel the ice cracking under them, so he flattened himself out and inched for the riverbank, slowly tugging Dean along with him. Dean was clinging to his arm, gasping and coughing, his lips already turning blue.

He just couldn't quite beat the cracks. Sam made it to shore, but the ice broke under Dean again before he was able to haul his brother free. Sam held on, gritting his teeth as Dean kicked and fought the pull of the river, and with a mighty heave pulled his brother on top of him to land on dry land.

Dean was shivering. Great, huge spasms that looked painful and probably felt worse, but Sam felt a little relief at that. Not shivering was bad...even if these were so strong they looked like convulsions at least it meant his body was fighting.

“Can't even buy me dinner first,” Sam grumbled, rolling his brother over to tug his soaking jacket and shirt off. He pulled his knife out to slit the dress pants from cuff to waist and just tore those free—yes, Dean's shoes and socks were soaked through but they still had to make it to the Impala and the terrain wasn't the best.

Sam pulled his own shirt off, even though the sleeves up to the elbows were wet, and fought to get Dean's uncoordinated limbs into the sleeves.

Dean immediately curled into the slight warmth, hugging his arms around his chest. “S-sammy?”

“Yeah, I'm here,” Sam rubbed a soothing circle on Dean's back. “Hang on, I'm gonna grab my jacket.”

He jogged back along the bank to where he'd tossed his jacket, up on the embankment and safe from the water. :He draped it around Dean's front, letting his brother bury his face in the jacket's collar.

“Okay, think you can wait here while I get the car?” Sam asked, automatically going back to rubbing his brother's back. There were dry clothes in the car. Blankets. A couple of those disposable handwarmers. Maybe even some warm coffee left in the thermmos.

Dean nodded, his body jerking. Sam patted his back before rooting through Dean's ruined pants for the key—luckily it wasn't at the bottom of the river, and took off for the car.

He could see it from where he'd pulled Dean ashore—maybe a couple dozen yards from the covered bridge. His adrenaline still running high, Sam reached the car even faster than he'd reached the river while chasing down Terry, stopping only to dump their duffels and a couple of blankets in the back seat before driving back down to Dean.

“Dean?” Sam didn't even close the driver's side door, just hauled a blanket out of the backseat and slid down the slight hill to his brother. “Hey, Dean, how you holding up?”

Dean gave him a thumb's up.

No, wait. That was his middle finger.

Sam snorted. “Nice, dude. Here, let's get you in the car.” He pulled Dean to his feet and wrapped the blanket around him, on top of the shirt and jacket he'd given him. The walk up the embankment was slow, Dean's body obviously stiff and numb from his dip in the freezing waters.

But they made it, and Sam eased his brother down to sit sideways on the driver's seat and pulled Dean's duffel bag around. “Don't get used to this,” he warned, shucking off Dean's shoes and pulling the socks free. He toweled his brother's feet dry, then worked Dean's 'old man socks' on his feet (they'd been a gag gift from Claire, some of those extra-thick wool socks 'to keep his old man toes from falling off', but Sam had seen Dean wearing them on cold mornings in the bunker).

“Okay, boxers next,” Sam announced, pulling a clean pair out of the bag.

Dean made an offended sound and tugged the blanket tighter, green eyes defiant over the edge of the blanket despite his shivering.

Sam huffed. “It's not like I've never seen it before, Dean.”

Yep, there was the middle finger again.

“Do you want your junk to fall off?”

Now Dean was pouting. It had been ridiculous in his twenties, but now that he was almost forty it was even worse.

“Fine!” Sam threw his hands up in the air. “Change them yourself, then. I'll go get the rest of your clothes.”

He stalked away, ignoring the pained huffs behind him. On the inside, though, he was a little relieved. A Dean that would throw an absolute bitch fit over something like his underwear was a Dean that was on the mend.

Sam picked up the sodden remains of the suit, double-checking Dean's jacket for his FBI badge. By the time he returned to the car, Dean had not only changed his shorts but had wriggled into a pair of pajama pants and a long-sleeved tee and was wrapped in the other blanket in the passenger's seat.

The younger Winchester threw the ruined suit and the duffel bag into the backseat of the car before ducking behind the car to change his own clothes. Once everything was loaded, he slid behind the driver's seat and turned the heat up to max, pointing all the heaters at Dean. “You good, man?”

Dean huddled down in the blanket and gave a thumb's up—yep, that was his thumb this time.

“Need me to spoon you when we get back to the hotel?”

“B-bite me, bitch.”

Sam snorted, easing the car onto the road to head back to their hotel. “Jerk.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done!
> 
> Next time: Recovery (Sam)


	30. Recovery (Sam)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a Season 9 AU. Instead of making Dean choose between Sam and Cas after rescuing Cas from April, Gadreel just leaves. Kevin potentially left as well, he's not present in the story but he could just be not interacting.

“Dude, how many of those have you had?” Dean joked, settling into the seat across from Cas.

Cas glanced up at him, burrito halfway to his mouth. “I believe this is the third.”

“Yeah, well, no more,” Dean tugged the bag away from his friend. His newly-human friend. “Look, man, I know you've been taking care of yourself for the last few days but we've really gotta make sure you're getting the right food.”

The former angel swallowed the bite he'd taken and stared down at the burrito in contemplation. “I had never realized there were so many things to consider.”

“Don't tell Sammy, but you probably need some of the greener food groups too, like—“

Dean's sentence was cut off by a crash from down the hall. He and Cas exchanged a puzzled glance, then were up on their feet to investigate.

“Sammy!” Dean ran for his brother's body, sprawled on the floors, limbs akimbo. “Sam? Come on, man, what is it?” He rolled Sam over, cradling his brother's head in the crook of one elbow. Cas knelt on Sam's other side, feeling for a pulse in his neck.

“He's alive,” Cas announced. “I don't understand, I thought you said Ezekial was healing him?”

“He was!” Dean snapped. “Hey, Zeke!” he shook Sam's body, ready to give the angel a piece of his mind. “What the hell, man? Get out here!”

Cas placed a hand on top of Dean's, forcing him to stop. “Dean?”

The older Winchester let out a rough sigh. “I let Ezekial possess Sam, he said it was the only way.”

Dean didn't want to look up, but he fully deserved the fury on his friend's face.

“You tricked him?”

“Dammit, Cas, I didn't have a choice!” Dean shook his head, looking back down to his brother's lax features. “You were out in the world with all those dicks after you, Sammy was dying, and Zeke said the only way he'd help would be if he could possess Sam.”

Cas leaned back, hands resting on his thighs, to study Sam's unconscious form. “That doesn't sound like Ezekial,” he muttered. “We should move Sam to a bed,” he said, louder, touching Dean on the arm to get his attention.

“I can't lose him, Cas.”

“We won't,” Castiel replied. He hooked his arms under Sam's ankles while Dean took his brother by the shoulders, and together they carried Sam down to the infirmary.

. . .

“It was Ezekial who brought me back, wasn't it,” Castiel asked, as soon as they'd gotten Sam changed into some loose-fitting pajamas and situated in a bed. The younger Winchester was beginning to spike a fever, and though it wasn't a dangerous temperature Dean was already at his side with a pile of cloths and a bucket of ice water.

“He didn't even say a word to me,” Dean said, replacing the cloth on his brother's forehead. “Just popped up, brought you back, and collapsed. I figured he must've worn himself out.”

Cas hesitated, pulling up a chair to Sam's other side. “Dean, what if that wasn't Ezekial?”

Dean glanced up and shook his head. “I don't get it, man, why would he lie?”

“I don't understand either,” Cas was fidgeting with his hands, running the tips of his fingers over the new scars he'd started accumulating. “Ezekial was...we weren't in the same garrison but we were friends. I don't understand why he would hide himself from me.”

Dean didn't understand either. Zeke hadn't seemed too bothered by what he'd done, Dean hadn't heard a peep out of him since he'd brought Cas back.

Sam made a sound in his sleep, and Dean refocused his attention. Sam did seem better, at least he was unconscious and not comatose. Zeke hadn't seemed to want to help find Cas, but Dean had assumed that was just because he was in danger every time he surfaced. If he wasn't really Ezekial...

No, there was time for that later. Time when Sam was back on the mend, when Cas had more than a short nap in the Impala, when Dean could relax for one friggin minute.

. . .

Dean looked up from the eggs he'd been scrambling and felt a grin break across his face at the sight of Sam shuffling into the kitchen, practically wrapped around Cas to stay upright.

The former angel had proved invaluable for Sam's recovery. His angelic lack of boundaries meant there was no embarrassment when Sam needed help changing clothes or using the bathroom, and he'd tackled Sam's physical therapy with the tenacity he'd used in his search for God.

“Well, look who's up!” Dean scooted a chair over to Sam so his brother could sit down.

The Ezekial Issue still hung heavily in the air between them. Sam had been furious, naturally, to learn that his brother had let an angel possess him but Cas had refused to let either brother shut the other out. They'd _talked_. It still sent shivers down Dean's spine, remembering long hours sitting at Sam's bedside while the former angel mediated as they went over everything.

The worst bit was the part Dean had kept to himself. He'd begun to follow Cas's suspicion that that angel hadn't been Ezekial, and if fake Zeke hadn't left then he might have tried to make Dean choose between Sam and Cas.

Even worse? There would have been no question about it. Dean still woke up in a cold sweat, dreaming he'd kicked his best friend out of the bunker.

“Sam decided he wanted a hot breakfast someplace other than his bed,” Cas announced, slipping past Dean to the coffeemaker. “We postponed his walk around the atrium until later this morning, if you would care to join us.”

“Yeah?” Dean glanced at his brother, who had folded his arms on the table to rest his head on them. “Hey, you want an omelet instead, Sammy? Cas keeps making me buy vegetables.”

His brother nodded, not lifting his head, and Dean turned back to the counter with a grin. He still remembered a time when 'omelets' were badly-scrambled eggs with a slice of American cheese and a packet of ketchup on top.

Sam barely ate a fourth of his omelet before he was falling asleep at the table, Dean rescuing the plate before Sam could get egg in his hair. “Well, back to bed, kiddo.”

. . .

It had been a good day. Sam had kept down almost everything he ate, his fever hadn't risen too high, and he'd even stayed awake for most of an episode of Star Trek.

They should have known that would lead to a bad night.

Dean leaned over his brother, bathing his face and neck with a cold washcloth, trying to coax him back to consciousness as Sam tossed and moaned.

Cas reappeared, clean clothes over one arm. “I put fresh sheets on the next bed,” he said, his voice low.

“Thanks,” Dean leaned back and rubbed his forehead with one hand. “What are we doing to him, Cas?”

The former angel blinked up at him, already bending to peel the filthy pajama pants off Sam's body. “What do you mean?”

“He's just...he's not getting better.”

“That's not true.” Cas tossed the dirty garments into the corner and lifted Sam's shoulders up so he could take the shirt off. “This is a bad night, but he's still better than the beginning.”

Dean stepped in, dipping a cloth in warm water to sponge the sweat and other fluids off Sam's body so they could get him redressed. “Do you think?”

“I know, Dean,” Cas said simply. “This is just a setback, you'll see.”

He didn't know if the former angel was just hopeful or confident, but the words did a lot to ease the tightness in Dean's chest. “Thanks, Cas.”

. . .

“Sammy.”

Sam looked up, guiltily, trying to shield his cup of coffee from his big brother. “Don't tell Cas,” he pleaded.

Dean chuckled. Cas had Sam drinking weak coffee, packed full of thick cream and sugar to give his body more nutrients but, like a Winchester, Sam had grown up on cheap diner coffee.

“One cup,” Dean agreed. “I won't tell if you don't, as long as this stays down.”

Sam pulled a face and took a long sip of his coffee. “Didn't hurt yesterday.”

That made Dean actually laugh. The thought of his gigantor little brother sneaking around to drink black coffee behind their backs was ridiculous. “We just want you to get better,” he finally said.

“I know,” Sam put the mug down and ran his fingers over the rim. “I appreciate it, but he's such a...”

“Mother hen?”

“I was gonna say Nurse Ratchet.”

Dean laughed again, slapping his brother on the shoulder.

“Sam!” Cas was standing in the door of the library, his eyes wide with shock. “”What are you drinking?”

Dean dodged back as his brothers fought—Cas trying to pull the mug away, Sam trying to chug the coffee down while he had a chance.

Maybe not-Ezekial had done them a favor after all. Even with all the talking he'd had to do, Dean had to admit it was nice to feel like a family again. All three of them, together.

“Okay, Sammy, don't pour the coffee on Cas,” Dean called, interrupting their fight to pull the mug out of his brother's hands. “And Cas, lighten up the restrictions a little? I think we can all agree he's on the mend.”

Sam would recover. They all would.

And they'd be stronger for it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just one more to go!
> 
> Next time: Embrace (Winchester)
> 
> Family don't end in blood. In the end, maybe that's all that matters.


	31. Embrace (Winchester)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warning: character death and emotional content. It's nothing violent, it's just how I would write the series ending if I were allowed. So it could be an ending far in the future.
> 
> I feel like I'm not whumping the characters as much as everyone who reads it. Sorry. If it helps, I cried while I was writing it.

In the end, he almost welcomed it.

He had seen his family die one by one—hunting for most, old age for a few fortunate ones. Now, with no one left, he'd just wandered the earth, lending aid where he could but with no real direction.

It was almost a mercy when the Rit Zien came.

Castiel had fought them—he'd promised Dean he wouldn't just roll over and die once everyone was gone—but with Heaven closed to him and no chance to see his family again, when the Rit Zien came in numbers to overwhelm him he'd almost welcomed it.

And so, it was a shock when he woke up in the Empty to come face to face with Death herself.

“Hello, Castiel.” Billie, dressed in the long coat she'd started wearing around the time Chuck killed Jack, leaned on her scythe and stared down at him.

Castiel felt his forehead crease in confusion as he slowly sat up, staring around himself at the blackness of the Empty. “What's going on?”

“You and I have business,” Billie said, offering her hand to pull him to his feet.

He accepted it, still studying their surroundings. It was the Empty, but where was the entity?

“Oh, we won't be disturbed,” Billie explained. “We have an agreement. I have something for you, Castiel.”

The angel looked back at her, an uneasy feeling sweeping over him. “What could Death want to give me?”

“It's not from me. Here, let me show you,” Billie pressed two fingers to his forehead, and the world around them swam and changed.

_Dean Winchester had summoned her. Billie let her fury build as she stormed toward the hunter—they may have had an uneasy peace these last few years, but she was still Death and would be respected._

_But something in his eyes, when he finally looked up, brought her to a halt. _

“_Hey, Billie,” Dean rested his hands on the back of a chair in front of him, shoulders hunched under the weight of some great emotion._

“_You summoned me,” Billie stated. It wasn't a question or a demand, but she would be answered._

“_Yeah, it's...uh, it's Cas.”_

_Billie raised one eyebrow. The angel? Last she had heard he was carrying on with the Winchester brothers, losing a little heavenly power but that was to be expected. “What is it?”_

“_He doesn't deserve this, man. This...this Empty thing. Where angels go when they die.”_

_Rocking back on one heel, Billie folded my arms. “And what do you think I could do with it?”_

“_Take me instead,” Dean looked up. “Let me trade places with him...send me to the empty and let him go back home.”_

“No!” Castiel twisted free, whipping around frantically. “You can't, this isn't his place!”

“Castiel,” Billie raised her hand in warning, and he steeled himself as she touched his forehead again.

“_Sorry for the summoning, Billie...uh, Death.”_

_Sam Winchester. Billie was a little surprised—though, truth be told, only a little—that the younger Winchester had summoned her only a few days after the older. “Let me guess. You've come to ask to change places with the angel.”_

_Sam stared at her, moving around the table with the summoning spell to make his plea. “Look, Cas hasn't done anything to deserve an eternity in prison.”_

“_You and your brother both seem to forget his crimes,” Billie said, her voice heavy with authority. “What gives you the right to ask that he be pardoned?”_

_The younger Winchester hesitated. “I'm asking as his brother,” he finally said after a few long minutes. “I'm asking because he's family and I love him. Please, Billie, let me take his place. Let him go home, when it's all over.”_

Castiel pulled away again, unable to look Death in the face. The brothers had both been cagey, in those hectic final days. He'd been so busy trying to keep them all alive through the end that he hadn't taken the time to worry things out, but this? They couldn't do this. He wouldn't take it.

“I'm not bringing them here, Castiel,” Billie called after him.

He stopped and turned back to face her. That was good news, surely. His brothers would stay in Heaven where they belonged, and he would go back to sleep for the rest of time. But why had she woken him up in the first place?

“This is for you,” Billie said, holding out one hand. A ball of light hovered a few inches above her palm, pulsating with all the colors of his Father's creation. Castiel hesitantly took it, and gasped at the warmth that filled his body.

Sam. Dean.

It was like brushing against their souls, touching just the barest edge of their true selves. He cupped his hands around it and relished the warmth, the distant tone of Sam's curiosity and Dean's protectiveness.

It would be a good dream to hold on to, until the end of time itself.

“Thank you,” he whispered, looking up at Billie.

Death was watching him with just the faintest of smiles on her face. “Go on, look at it properly.”

Castiel frowned and looked back down at the ball of light in his hands. He held it up to his eyes and studied it, then gasped a little in recognition.

Charlie. Kevin. Ellen. Jo.

Jack. Bobby. Mary. Even a wisp he thought might be John Winchester.

Jimmy Novak.

More and more, tiny fragments of the humans he'd loved and served for his days on Earth.

He blinked back up at Billie, tears in his eyes. “I don't understand.”

Billie took a step forward. “Do you know Rudyard Kipling?”

Castiel tilted his head. “Metatron downloaded his stories into my head.”

“Right. Do you remember the story about how the mockingbird got its song?”

He nodded. The mockingbird had been last in line when the creator was handing out plumage, and instead received a beaded necklace where each bead was a different song. The other birds wanted songs, too, so the mockingbird gave each of them a bead, but was left with none of his own. Then the other birds, in gratitude of what the mockingbird had done, each broke off a piece of their bead for the mockingbird to string on his necklace, and thus the mockingbird could sing any song.

It was a charming story, though rather silly and not based in reality whatsoever.

“I did not take a soul from one of your humans,” Billie explained. “But those who were willing gave me a fragment, and it was enough to make that.”

Castiel looked down at the ball of light. Now that he knew, he could feel the shreds of the souls swimming around together, each one radiating emotion.

Wonder. Love. Friendship. Trust. Hope. Respect. Admiration.

Forgiveness.

“I don't understand,” he said again, cupping the fragments of soul close to his chest.

Billie smiled, rested her hands on his, and _pushed_.

Castiel stepped back with a gasp as the bits of souls filled his vessel, stitching him to the flesh in a way the Empty never had. “Billie?”

“Relax,” she squeezed his hands.

He gasped as pain coursed through him, what was left of his grace dissolving under the onslaught of the souls. Then it was cold, and heavy, and the familiar feeling of mortality dragging his limbs to earth and anchoring him to the mortal world.

Except...he was already dead.

“Now, come with me,” Billie said, shifting her grip so that she was holding his hand, leading the way with her scythe in the other.

“But I can't leave,” Castiel protested, still trying to make sense of what was happening. “I'm an angel.”

“Are you?” Billie cocked her head, and Castiel looked back to see his body stretched out on the ground of the Empty, the shadows of burnt wings bracing it on either side.

Then she tugged him through a slit in reality, and he was in the bright corridors of Heaven.

“Now, this is a one time deal,” Billie warned. “Souls aren't something to screw around with, and if you or your little friends want to resurrect someone else the answer is no.”

She stopped in front of a door in the hallway. “Well, here you are.”

Castiel blinked up at the plate on the door.

_Dean Winchester_

_Sam Winchester_

But as he stared, the metal of the plate shifted and a third line appeared.

_Castiel Winchester_

The door slid open under her hand, and Castiel found himself in a simulacrum of the bunker.

“Cas!”

There was no time to study his surroundings, as in the next moment Dean Winchester swept him up in an embrace that pulled Castiel off his feet. He heard Sam laugh, and soon the younger hunter had his arms wrapped around both of them.

“I can't believe it worked,” Sam finally said, letting go and turning away to wipe at his eyes.

Dean kept an arm wrapped around Castiel's shoulder, squeezing just a little. “Welcome home, Cas.”

Overwhelmed, Castiel could only stare around himself in wonder.

His _family_. His _home_.

And this time, he would never have to leave.

He smiled up at Dean from under the hunter's arm. "I'm home."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe we're finally here, at the end!
> 
> I did miss one day, due to an internet outage, but this is the biggest thing I've ever undertaken.
> 
> Now, I can't write this frequently on a regular basis, but I am hoping to stay involved. I am planning an epilogue to chapter 28, and have some extended fic ideas for chapters 7 and 17 (plus the Sandover AU and Fallout AU, but those aren't very far in the works right now). Is there anything else you'd like expanded on?
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me on this incredible journey!

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wonders, the parenthesis in the chapter title is just a secondary description I came up with for each chapter. I'm not doing two challenges at once or working through a random word generator (although that would be a cool twist to a challenge). Just a little something I'm doing for flare.


End file.
